


Fire And Water

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Triumvirate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: Five reasons why only one person aboard can get in-between Commander Spock and CMO Leonard McCoy, and one reason why even he will cut and run instead
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock, James T. Kirk & Spock, Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock
Comments: 11
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is the Spock-and-McCoy version of _My Captain_ , started long ago at someone’s request but unfinished for one reason or another. Posting it now as part of the fic move and in hopes that it’ll kickstart my TOS muse into figuring out where I was going with it. Feel free to throw a plot bunny my way if you’re so inclined.

**VI: Fighting Fire with Fire**

Amanda Grayson was a highly intelligent woman. One had to, in order to both understand and love a Vulcan, be able to read nuances of dialogue and subtleties of behavior that most individuals would never see for the expressions of affection they were. Sarek had, only once, commented to her about how atypical she was for her species; namely, in that most humans simply presumed and assumed that Vulcan principle dictated a complete lack of emotion, and therefore never even attempted to understand that was not precisely the case.

On the contrary, as she well knew, the Vulcan way was that of control, processing and detachment; a far cry from entire lack of emotion or feeling. Were the latter typical, then every Vulcan would be an acolyte of Gol - and there would be few or no little Vulcans running about, she suspected with a flash of mischievous humor.

No, Vulcans did feel; one merely had to know how to look in order to see it, and not demand more than the Vulcan in question were able to give. Unfortunately, even she had never met another human who possessed that unique ability which had drawn a stately Vulcan ambassador to her from the moment they met.

That is, until, for the very first time in twelve years, Spock actually mentioned a human in his correspondence to her.

This was such an anomaly in itself, that it would have been highly attention-getting to her attuned motherly senses without other contributing factors. Spock had never voluntarily mentioned the humans with whom he served aboard ship; never mentioned them at all, unless that information was specifically pried out of him by her repeated questioning. But that such a human should be referred to by his first name in this communiqué, a human custom which Spock had eschewed with every fiber of his detached (half)Vulcan _katra_ , made the event tenfold more memorable, and she filed it carefully away for further rumination (and some motherly prying into her son's affairs; one benefit of having a Vulcan son was that he would die before admitting to so human a thing as _annoyance_ at her interest).

Someday, she vowed, as she filed the letter away with a smile, she must find out who this _Jim_ person was.

Months passed, and during that time she learned that the man to whom Spock had been referring was none other than the new and highly controversial Captain James T. Kirk, the young human captain of the overhauled Federation flagship. Kirk was, by all accounts, brash and charismatic, a dynamo of intelligent charm and daring. The youngest captain in Starfleet history, he was suiting his new ship to his reputation; Spock's very first account of the man had been a disbelieving report that he had abolished the habit of saluting in the corridors, an appallingly modernistic action which had equal parts horrified and surprised his highly-trained crew, and Amanda’s highly-trained son.

 _Jim is a fascinating enigma, Mother_ , had been Spock's sole comment in that first missive, and she had smiled; for it was the highest of compliments, coming from a Vulcan. She could only hope that this young captain might someday be able to understand that as well as she did by now.

As time passed, Spock's missives home became suspiciously less…cold, was perhaps the word; obviously, some outside influence was softening an exterior hardened into impenetrable armor by years of retreat behind the defense of cultural difference and flawless logic. Only a mother could see it, of course; but see it she did, and was grateful.

The tiny tidbits she read between the lines of Spock's accounts of everyday life aboard the _Enterprise_ were fascinating; accounts which had never before been so detailed or so varied as they were now. Never had Spock, to her knowledge, spent an evening in an activity other than working in his laboratories or reading in his cabin. Now, it seemed her son had actually emerged to hold his own in the social life of a busy starship, and he sounded as if he actually did not even _mind_ the change. A small miracle, and one for which she suspected Captain Kirk was responsible.

Call it a mother's instinct, but she secretly harbored the shockingly unVulcan suspicion that her son had actually - horrors! - made a human _friend_.

Then, one eve when she was in an ambassadorial guest suite aboard a neutral vessel many star systems from Vulcan, she received notification that Spock had gone into a very premature Time, and had nearly committed the unthinkable, an unwitting _stau-mesh'es_ , (1) when rejected by T'Pring.

Sarek was mildly shocked at his well-bred wife's vocabulary in reference to their no-longer-promised bond-daughter, but after years of marriage to an illogical human he had clearly learned wisdom regarding which battles to fight and which to retreat from. Amanda was furious with T'Pring, not for her rejection of Spock, but for her waiting until the _kal-if-fee_ to do so, with the clear intention of forcing Spock into a fight to the death while in the most weakened condition a Vulcan could possibly be. Spock had not returned to Vulcan in over a decade, and that in itself was grounds to dissolve the bond between him and his promised by legal means, much less adding the other considerations of his off-planet career and half-human status. T'Pring had waited until the _kal-if-fee_ merely because having her name on record as attached to one of the wealthiest clans on Vulcan had done wonders for her social standing and career on the planet, and she had kept control of every shred of the process for as long as she could.

But even this, Amanda might be willing to forgive, for the entire process was a Vulcan custom she as a human woman did not fully appreciate; a Vulcan woman had very few biological rights concerning the Time, and she would never have objected to T’Pring dissolving her bond with Spock on any grounds, at any time prior to the blood-fever taking hold – that was not the issue. No, Amanda would never forgive that little…she would never forgive T'Pring, for forcing Spock to nearly kill the only human Amanda knew for fact he had ever even slightly cared for.

Had it not been for the quick action and foresight of the ship's Chief Medical Officer, Kirk would have been killed, and Spock would never have recovered. Even Sarek had been 'deeply displeased,' which was the Vulcan equivalent of furious in her experience, by T'Pring's dishonorable actions, and she took a bit of evil pleasure in knowing that the young woman's life would soon be as miserable as the aging Vulcan was capable of making it - that, being extremely so, as a reigning patriarch and T'Pring clearly with another for a long period outside the bounds of an official bonding.

Even Amanda, however, was shocked that her son would have dared bring two _humans_ to the planet and the sacred ceremony; this, more than anything else, betrayed his feelings more clearly than words would have. Reading between the lines of Spock's very sparse account, she realized he had in effect shamed the house of Sarek by his plea for Kirk's life, showing all too clearly just how remarkable this young human was.

She prayed to the Vulcan gods as well as her own that night, that their relationship would not suffer unduly for this near-tragedy.

But it was upon a second re-reading (her first had been under much emotional stress and shock, and she had hardly been thinking clearly), that she noticed another very odd occurrence.

Spock referred to another human by name. Not first name, no; but still, the event was remarkable for its occurrence alone.

If Spock thought enough of this Doctor McCoy to defy tradition and ask the human to stand with him at his most private Time…surely the man was more than _just_ the ship's Chief Medical Officer. Not to mention, it was due to the healer's daring and ingenuity that Captain Kirk was alive, and Spock not undergoing Starfleet trial for mutiny and murder by his own volition (she knew her honorable son would have confessed to the same, despite the circumstances being dismissible by Vulcan law).

 _I now owe Dr. McCoy a life-debt, Mother,_ Spock had said at the close of the letter. _A fact of which he no doubt will take great pleasure in reminding me at every opportunity._

 _Well, well_ , she thought, taking a deep breath to control and then release the last of her motherly indignation. _A friendly acquaintance and sarcasm, all in the same paragraph. My son, you are becoming positively human._

* * *

She did have the chance to meet this mysterious McCoy, during the voyage aboard the _Enterprise_ , en route to the Babel conference. Granted, she would have preferred their acquaintance not primarily revolve around Sarek's deteriorating health, but it was the Vulcan Way to accept with equanimity that which could not be changed; and this could not. Other than a brief introduction, she did not see the physician until late the next day, at the welcoming party hosted by the _Enterprise_ crew for the Babel delegates.

As wife of the most sought-after conversant, she was afforded the rare opportunity to stand silently back and watch the crew of her son's ship at work. While a primarily human complement, there were a few non-Terrans in the crew, who were as far as she could see cheerful and content in their work. Spock himself, she observed with amusement, had firmly affixed himself to the side of his captain, subtly steering the human clear of the more garrulous of delegates who wished to monopolize Kirk's attention. Watching the two as they made the circuit of the room, she saw at once why they had become something of a legend in their Starfleet; they worked in perfect synchronicity, even walked that way, as if they were one being split into two physical bodies. It was so effortless that one would never even think about it unless one were looking for it, as she was through a mother's fond eyes. Spock was _comfortable_ here, she could see that immediately; a far cry from the uneasiness she had always seen in a social setting. This was his family, she realized sadly, for they treated him with far more respect than his own blood did.

She hid a laugh in a glass of fruit juice, more sober thoughts forgotten, as the captain was snagged by one arm by an over-eager young female delegate from Arthos II. Eyeing the flirtatious glances of the delegate's aide with Vulcan reserve, Spock evidently decided this was no longer his arena of politics, and wisely retreated to a safer sphere of socialization. McCoy met him at the refreshment table, and Amanda decided this was as good a time as any to see what precisely her son saw in this unusual human.

She was delighted to find that the genteel physician was possessed of both perfect Southern Terran manners and a streak of wicked mischief which she knew must positively give Spock fits, and so she was only too happy to respond in kind with an anecdote from Spock's childhood. Rather than embarrassing him, as she had feared, Spock merely regarded her with mildly fond indulgence and returned McCoy's good-natured teasing with a few barbs of his own. Their exchanges might, to an outsider, have sounded harsh and even xenophobic; but to her more attuned perception, it was obvious that this was an old and venerated routine rather than anything resembling genuine animosity. There no doubt was that, at times; she suspected McCoy's personality grated too harshly on a Vulcan to be otherwise - but not so, now.

The captain wandered up to them mid-story, and she did not miss his eager hanging on her every word. Obviously, Spock was no more forthcoming with private information now than he ever had been, for both humans' eyes were dancing with glee at this little tidbit of Vulcan personal history.

This alone would have been enough to set her motherly mind at rest that these humans were trustworthy friends for her son, but if she had any lingering doubts they were dispelled by the chaos which soon upended their lives aboard with frightening drama. The Tellarite delegate's murder, followed closely by Sarek's collapse and imminent danger drove all else from her mind for the next few days as she performed her duties as a wife. Her concern for Sarek's life turned the hours into little more than a blur of emotional upheaval, until one afternoon in the ship's bustling Sickbay.

She was sitting by Sarek's bedside, reading while he meditated, only to be startled by a nurse's shriek and a sudden commotion in the outer ward. Sarek never blinked, obviously deep in his meditative trance, and she moved to the door just in time to see her son stagger his way to a waiting gurney and gently set his captain upon it. Kirk's head was lolling limply, his breathing ragged, lips a chilly blue tinge that told of lack of oxygen. She saw Spock's sleeve slick and wet with blood when he drew his arms back, soon bumped unceremoniously away by a flurry of controlled panic in the person of one white-faced Leonard McCoy, armed with an oxygen mask and hollering at the top of his voice for Chapel to prep an operating theater.

Spock looked lost for a moment, an island of bewildered helplessness in the midst of medical chaos as Kirk was stripped of his shirt and wheeled into the operation room. She would have gone to him, wished to do so, but there was no need; the human healer had suddenly turned, and jabbed a stern finger at her son's chest.

"You," McCoy growled, glaring up at the tensely expressionless features, "get outta my Sickbay. You know he's going to fight my sedation tooth and nail unless I can tell him you're on the Bridge taking care of his ship."

"Doctor…"

McCoy's blue eyes softened, and she was surprised to see that he reached up and squeezed her son's thin shoulder for a moment. More surprisingly, Spock permitted such a liberty - an unheard-of occurrence, and one which was immensely telling.

"Y'did good, Spock," the human said quietly. "Now get outta my hair so I can help him."

Spock nodded, a lightning-quick jerk of the head, and backed away as the physician snatched a pair of sterile gloves from the nearest unit and charged after his newest patient.

"And don't go killing that Andorian who stabbed him, either - y'know how Jim hates doing paperwork!" McCoy hollered over his shoulder, just before the door slid quietly shut behind him.

Spock's eyebrow inched upward, but the (probably half-serious) quip had done its intended work; he visibly relaxed, and after a moment of contemplation left silently as a ghost.

Just as silently, Amanda returned to her husband's bedside. They all had their places, and hers was here. She was pleased, despite her concern for the captain's welfare, that Spock had apparently managed to find his as well, sandwiched somewhere between these two remarkable humans.

* * *

The remainder of their voyage was uneventful, save for the one rather exciting occasion two nights after Captain Kirk's injury and Sarek's successful surgery. Spock was nearly himself again, though still recovering from the effects of the transfusion and the blood-producing accelerant upon his hybrid physiology. Amanda had apologized to Spock for her treatment of him during the last few days, and had been immediately dismissed and forgiven with that same gentle tolerance her actions had always been by her half-human son. She had anticipated a peaceful night with all the drama behind them, and in fact had settled into a pleasantly soft bed beside her husband (she refused to return to their cabin, an action which Sarek called illogically emotional but which she knew ridiculously pleased him) for the first restful night's sleep she had had since coming aboard. McCoy had told her he was doing paperwork and then would probably sleep on the couch in his office for tonight, and the gamma shift nursing staff were quiet as they went about their duties, letting dim lights and hushed voices lull the Sickbay occupants into slumber.

She had not yet fallen asleep, having stayed up a bit to finish her book, when a sudden wailing of alarms sounded from the other recovery cubicle - the one in which her son and Captain Kirk were. Alarmed, she rose and hastily donned her dressing gown, shushed Sarek's half-asleep inquiries, and went to the door to find out what was wrong.

She was not expecting a chorus of laughter, loudest of which was McCoy's, as he braced himself against the open doorway and grinned at the sheepish occupants of the other cubicle.

Spock was frozen atop a chair beside Kirk's bio-bed, holding a spanner and a pair of miniature wire-cutters, while the captain himself was leaning half out of the bed, staring incredulously up at the flashing lights and alarm sounding from the sensor array above his head.

"Since when do you have an escape alarm, Bones!"

"Since the _last_ time you two disconnected the bio-bed sensors and checked yourselves out of here when my back was turned," McCoy retorted, laughing at Spock's still wide-eyed expression. "You want to get down, Commander, or do you just like the view from up there?”

Spock gracefully stepped down from the chair and tugged at the hem of his tunic, acting as if he had been merely performing routine maintenance instead of trying to break his captain out of Sickbay. The action was slightly hindered by the presence of the tools in his hand, which he at first held behind his back and then, after some deliberation, dropped on the captain's thermal blanket.

"Doctor, I assure you -"

"That you were actin' under orders, yes, I know, Mr. Spock," the doctor drawled, grinning. "Vulcan loyalty, I tell you." His eyes flicked to the side, where Amanda stood unseen, and saw her amused look. "And breaking rules with your mother right in the next room, Spock, now really."

Spock's look of horrified dismay reminded her only too well of the adorable little boy he had once been, and she could not help but smile.

Captain Kirk appeared to be muffling a fit of (no doubt drug-induced) giggles in his pillow.

"Laugh it up, Jim-boy," McCoy groused, punching an override code into the sensor set. The klaxon ceased, and a moment later the lights stopped flashing. "Now the hobgoblin, I'd probably let get by me, God knows I'm tired'a tryin' to keep his skinny behind in that bed - but you, captain sir, you have another day before you're going anywhere."

Kirk flopped back, gingerly, onto his pillows with a sigh. "Well, we tried," he said dolefully, glancing up with a half-grin at his First Officer.

"Meaning _I_ tried," Spock answered with an air of great longsuffering. "You, conversely, simply lay there and offered unhelpful - and, as it transpired, totally erroneous - advice regarding the disabling of the sensor array. Sir."

"Hey, you can't blame me for Dr. McCoy's paranoia, Spock."

"Indeed, I cannot. The good doctor is _wholly_ to blame for his multiplicitous character flaws."

"Mul-ti-pli-ci-tous…now that's a bit harsh, don't you think, Spock?"

"On the contrary, Captain, I believe I am being rather generous in my estimation."

"How you can even pronounce that with the drugs in your system, Jim, I have no idea, but I continue to be impressed. And you got ten seconds to be back in that bed, Commander, or we'll get to see how _impressed_ you'll be with a hypo full of Vulcan naptime," the physician growled, arms folded.

Spock eyed him for a moment, and then scooted back into his bio-bed, whereupon he fastidiously arranged the blankets with an expression full of affronted dignity.

"Serve you both right if I kept you here another week," McCoy grumbled, slapping the light switch on his way out of the cubicle. He threw her a wink, finger to his lips in a gesture of secrecy as he passed.

Amanda stepped back into the shadows, smiling at the tiny slice of her son's life she'd been given.

* * *

Spock of Vulcan had, as the son of a Vulcan ambassador and, equally, the son of a human, met various types of each species in his lifetime thus far. Some he had discarded as unimportant or uninteresting individuals, some he had gladly and intentionally dismissed for their innate rudeness, a very select few he chose to allow companionship with due to their acceptance of him both as Vulcan and as an individual, and an even more select few refused defiantly to fall into any of the aforementioned categories, for they defied categorization with a deftness that astounded his quantitative scientific mind.

One Dr. Leonard H. McCoy was, unfortunately, one of the latter.

Upon meeting James T. Kirk for the first time, Spock had been at first very wary of the brilliant, charismatic human. But gradually, in a span of time so short it was inexcusably surprising, the human methodically and logically cleared every obstacle between the two of them until Spock one day realized he had, in statement of fact, become friends with a human in a ridiculously short amount of time. They simply fit, as cogs and gears did, and while the phenomenon was inexplicable it nonetheless existed. Kirk and Spock were The Command Team to serve under for aspiring 'Fleet cadets, and it was in part due to their individual talents but mostly due to their combined brilliance. Spock had never before formed such a near-instantaneous connection with another, and certainly never with one of these impulsive, irrational humans.

Doctor McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the newly-launched Kirkian _Enterprise_ , was an entirely different matter.

Spock had not been closely acquainted with anyone of Pike's crew save Pike himself and Montgomery Scott; he knew only the basics of Dr. Piper's regime as CMO, as due to his hybrid physiology he was rarely in need of Sickbay himself. He steered well clear of the area unless required to visit in a scientific capacity, and there had always existed clear and definite territorial boundaries between Medical and Science. Then the _Enterprise_ was refitted prior to the captaincy turnover, and while he was Chief Science Officer and not First Officer initially, Spock found that he would be required to interact more with the entirety of the Science departments than he had previously.

This would not have been a trial, were it not for the arrival of the new Chief Medical Officer, one Leonard H. McCoy, as they were on their way to the Galactic Barrier. McCoy was to spend that shakedown with CMO Mark Piper, learning the procedures and so on of starship duty, whereupon he would take over for their retiring CMO after the shakedown cruise.

Captain Kirk had greeted the human with his usual effusive fervor, leading Spock to the conclusion that they were old friends, and while First Officer Mitchell seemed indifferent to the man's apparent irascible temperament and caustic brand of humor it grated on Spock intensely. McCoy's method of dealing with people in general seemed to be a combination of intimidation and manipulation, the captain included. Spock observed the physician berating incoming cases in Sickbay for carelessness, watched him practically chase patients back into their beds when they attempted to make their escape, hound the captain about his eating habits, and disregard all semblance of personal space when on a tirade about incomplete medical records regarding his own medical file.

And that was simply within the first week.

Spock, quite simply, did not get along with Leonard McCoy, and he was fairly certain the state of being was mutual, if not conversely more so.

As that animosity did not appear to perturb the human, Spock decided it was not worth his attention, and therefore proceeded to ignore it as he did all unimportant matters. Besides, not twenty-four hours after he made this conclusion, the ship tried and failed to breach the Galactic Barrier, and unleashed an entirely new set of demons aboard in the form of the ship's First Officer and Captain Kirk's longtime closest friend. His difficulty in understanding - not to mention tolerating - the irascible human behavior of the ship's Chief Medical Officer was not at all high on his list of priorities, and remained so for much of that first half-year.

Then came the worst command disaster he had yet to encounter, his undeniable failure to keep the crewmen under his command safe and satisfied while stranded in the Murasaki 312 formation due to a derelict shuttlecraft. Only once before, had Captain Pike put him in charge of humans on an away mission, and that had been such an unmitigated exercise in foolishness that in eleven years he had never been forced to do so again.

Captain Kirk had, upon learning of this, and recognizing that Starfleet Command would never confer his full Commander rank without this experience, had informed him upon his acceptance of the position of First Officer, that Spock would be expected to interact with his crew and to be capable of commanding them. Kirk had been kind, but firm, in his orders for Spock to "mingle" with the humans comprising the crew, and began slowly working the Vulcan into the chain of command with direct authority. Spock did not particularly enjoy these occasions, but functioned within acceptable parameters if Kirk's reports were accurate.

However, the Galileo disaster was the first time he had been in command of a human complement in less-than-optimal conditions.

And, he had failed that command, and thereby failed his captain, who had possessed such trusting faith in his abilities. Utterly, irretrievably, irrevocably failed.

Oh, Jim had talked it over with him afterwards, pointed out what he might have done and said and decided in order to keep peace in the ranks, but that was of little comfort when several of the crew lay dead on the planet below, and the remainder of the Galileo seven - with the exception of a sheepishly apologetic Montgomery Scott - had made it clear they would never accept his authority. Jim had entrusted his crew to his First Officer's command, and said First Officer had floundered miserably before finally failing to even evoke the respect due to any superior officer from the humans involved. The fact that the captain was highly indignant over the disrespect he had received was but thin balm on a wound smarting of failure due to his own ignorance.

He did not blame the human crew for their resistance of his authority; to refuse to recognize truth is not logical, and he would be the first to readily admit his complete inability to relate to human action and reaction. Despite Kirk's well-meaning and always patient tutoring, his progress in understanding the cultural differences between their species was slow, and seemed at times to be an insurmountable difficulty. He was incapable of commanding a human crew, much less of commanding the respect and, he had observed, the affection which the Captain had managed to single-handedly earn in his first week aboard.

Were he human, he might believe it to be slightly unfair; as he was Vulcan, it was merely a statement of fact, one which he stood very little chance of overcoming.

He was, therefore, understandably shocked to admit a visitor to his quarters the evening after the Galileo crew's recovery, only to find that it was not, as he had assumed, the captain. No one else, in all his years aboard, had ever presumed he would even cordially receive personal visitors; Jim had been the single and notable exception, waking him up his third morning of the new captaincy by cheerfully hollering outside his cabin door to ask if he wanted to break fast in Officers' Mess together. The idea of leaving the Vulcan CSO to his own privacy had evidently just never occurred to Jim Kirk's exuberant personality, and for the first time in his life Spock found the human's persistent companionship to be…refreshing.

But now, for the first time since their initial meeting nearly six months ago, the human fidgeting nervously in front of his cabin door was Dr. McCoy.

He had been working at his desk when the buzzer sounded, and had simply unlocked the door, thinking it to be the captain - though the man usually found it sufficient, and more efficient, for reasons only known to him, to bellow through their shared bathroom. Spock had never before had another human visitor in his cabin, save for one solitary instance when Captain Pike had checked on him after an away mission gone awry.

Therefore, when the door slid open to reveal a wary, scrubs-clad human rocking nervously back and forth on his heels, he froze, staring at the physician in surprise.

"Uh." McCoy cleared his throat after this exceedingly eloquent beginning, and peered warily into the cabin, as if expecting alien devices to begin shooting at him the moment he crossed the threshold. "Can I come in, Mr. Spock?"

Well, if nothing else, his well-bred human mother had taught him proper human manners, and it would be rude to refuse. Besides, Spock was at heart a scientist, with a scientist's curiosity.

Nevertheless, it would not do to be overly genial with this particularly annoying human; he certainly had no desire to encourage this uncharacteristically social behavior. "If you must, Doctor McCoy," he replied coolly.

The human winced, interestingly enough, but shuffled forward into the reddish glow of his favored lighting, a more relaxing setting to his Vulcan eyesight than the shipwide standard. Spock knew he would require meditation to excuse the unforgivable twinge of satisfaction when the doctor stumbled slightly at the increased gravity, yelping as he flailed for a hand-hold on the nearest piece of furniture.

"How d'you not _float_ around this tin can, if you're used to _that_?" McCoy muttered sourly, righting himself with a jerk.

Spock restrained a twitch of amusement. "Practice, Doctor. I am, as many crewmen seem to forget, far more tolerant of your extremely specist starship conditions than a human would be aboard a correspondingly Vulcan vessel."

The doctor yanked irritably at his collar, glancing around the cabin, and Spock relented slightly. "Computer, set temperature and humidity to human tolerance levels."

"Thanks," McCoy grunted, still peering about him in the reddish light.

Spock silently inclined his head.

"Well." The human shuffled uneasily, ran his free hand - the one not holding a data-padd - through his hair. "I guess you're wonderin' why I'm here."

"Wondering would require interest, Doctor. As my interest in attempting yet more unproductive communication with you is nonexistent, then the answer is negative. I am _not_ 'wondering why you are here.'"

"Yeah, guess I deserve that," the doctor sighed, much to Spock's surprise. "Wouldn't blame you if we soured you on the whole command experience thing for life, Mr. Spock."

The curse of an eidetic memory was recalling precise detail for even those moments which one would prefer to soon forget. _You see, Mister Spock, I would insist upon a decent burial even if your body was back there. All right, Spock, you have all the answers, what now? If any minor damage was overlooked, it was when they put his head together. Not his head, Mister Boma, his heart._ (2) He closed off his mind to such fruitless thoughts, and returned his attention to the human who was currently meandering in an irregular elliptical in front of his desk.

"Look, Mr. Spock - Lieutenant Commander," McCoy corrected himself hastily, though Spock would not have corrected him, "I…" he paused, and Spock finally stopped typing to look up with curiosity.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Well, I…ah, to heck with it," the human said gruffly, and straightened up to his full height, at strict military attention. "Mr. Spock, I dunno how your people look at apologies, probably think they're illogical or something - but just the same, I'd like to offer you one."

Spock felt his eyebrows disappear into his hairline of their own accord, and he shut off the computer program to give his undivided attention to this incredible scientific anomaly. Of all things to expect from this most maddening of humans, an apology had certainly never ranked on his list. He was, in short, completely mystified, at a loss to explain the phenomenon.

McCoy fidgeted briefly, tugging on his short sleeves, and then looked back up, meeting the incredulous gaze squarely and with a hint of fiery defiance that was far more familiar to Spock than this almost ridiculous submission. "I was beyond insubordinate, Commander, during the recent mission, and -" he swallowed harshly, but continued with a perfectly calm voice, "I've placed myself on report, for behavior unbefitting a Starfleet officer. I was…well, I was _way_ out of line, and I'm sorry. Sir." This last was tacked on almost as an afterthought, making Spock oddly want to smile at the human's grudging and totally out-of-character respect.

Three steps brought the physician to his desk, and the data-padd was dropped unceremoniously on his stack of paperwork. "Captain signed it already, but…" the human grimaced, but continued, "…said my disciplinary measures should be handed out by you."

Now this was completely unexpected, and for a long moment Spock was simply without speech. Jim Kirk was not known for delegating his responsibilities, nor was he known for being purposely cruel; why would he have sent McCoy for reprimand to the authority the doctor despised most, and had - in human terms; of course as a Vulcan he had taken no affront - offended?

He recalled what the Captain had said last night regarding this disastrous Galileo mission; some ridiculous human metaphor about equestrianism, and re-mounting after being thrown from a Terran horse. Obviously, the captain had no intention of permitting him to remain in a state of failure; requiring him to interact with the same humans he had misled was a second chance, so to speak, a new opportunity to change their perceptions of him.

And only a fool, of whatever species, wastes a second chance.

Spock stared down at the cheerfully blinking cursor on the padd, indicating a report having the primary signature but requiring a secondary one in order to be authorized for filing in the doctor's official Starfleet record. A record which, Spock had read prior to McCoy's coming aboard, had been sketchily contradictory at best, full of reprimands for belligerence and defiance of authority when under pressure, but equally full of commendations for bravery beyond the call of duty in protecting a crewman, or recognition for medical achievements under stressful battle conditions. The man was a walking contradiction, a maelstrom of equal parts compassion and ferocity, belligerence and loyalty, intelligence and irrationality, mischief and morality - a fascinating anomaly of humanity in whom Jim obviously saw value.

As for his own opinion…well. As the humans would say, _the jury was still out_ on that hypothesis.

And according to this report, McCoy had filed the censure himself, when it had become evident that Spock would not specifically call certain crewmen by name in his own skeletal report of the mission? He had simply seen no point in further alienating officers who, in his opinion, had every right to be dissatisfied with his command; yet here, this strange human had filed a report on _himself_ , an action which no other crewman he had ever met would have had conscience enough to perform. McCoy had not been his strongest supporter during the Galileo disaster, but nor had he been the worst dissenter; he had known when the lines were crossed toward the end, and had chastised the crewmen accordingly.

He leaned back in his chair, arms resting lightly on the desk before him, and regarded the fiery physician with detached solemnity. McCoy's blue eyes narrowed, piercing and still ever-so-slightly rebellious at his cold demeanor.

"Well?" McCoy snapped at last, releasing his attentive posture in order to fold his arms across his chest, scowling. "You gonna sit there and just _stare_ at me like I'm one of your experiments, or assign me gamma shift duty for a month, or what?"

Spock resisted the regrettably human urge to smirk. This was far more familiar ground, and ground he could easily - and someday, perhaps enjoyably - contest.

"Sit down, Doctor McCoy," he instructed calmly. The physician looked awkwardly around for a moment and then sat, gingerly, across from him - as if half-expecting the chair to be rigged to collapse under him at any moment.

Spock quietly pushed a button on the data-padd, efficiently erasing the report and its damning contents. "I have chosen what I believe is a suitably severe consequence of your behavior, Doctor," he said, pushing the padd across the desk.

McCoy glanced down at it, started in shock, and then glanced up with a scowl of suspicious bewilderment. "And just what might that be, Mr. Spock?" he drawled, one eyebrow arched.

"I believe that you and I possess common goals regarding the outcome of this voyage and the mental and physical health of the _Enterprise_ crew, Doctor. I propose that we meet bi-weekly to discuss and resolve any problems which may occur in Medical and/or ship's Operations." He paused, and chose his words carefully, not wishing to destroy this tentative second chance. After all, he was not the son of a galactically famous diplomat for naught. "This would include any…concerns, which you might possess about my performance as First Officer, and its effects upon crew morale."

"And it'd include your damage control for any screw-ups I may've made as Chief Medical Officer, and _their_ effects on crew morale?" the human replied ruefully, for the first time quirking a lopsided grin.

"Do remember, I specified bi-weekly, Doctor. We shall not have time for _constant_ communication."

The human blinked, then startled him by chuckling loudly, leaning back in his chair with a much more relaxed expression. "Y'know something, Mr. Spock," he began, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

"I know a great many things, Doctor."

"Yeah, whatever - you know, I still haven't decided if I even _like_ you," McCoy declared candidly.

"I assure you, the sentiment is quite mutual, Doctor."

A crooked grin appeared on the physician's face, and he nodded. "But I'm willing to call it a truce if you are. For the sake of the crew, at least. And so Jim doesn't kill one of us for not playing nice."

"For the sake of the crew and the captain," Spock repeated solemnly, and had the uncomfortable feeling that he was going to regret this newfound acquaintanceship…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Literally, a betrayal-kill (personal betrayal; not in self-defense, but neither premeditated)  
> (2) Quotes from The Galileo Seven


	2. Chapter Two

**V: Light a Fire Under Someone**

"I really, really hate Mr. Spock right now," Monique Benet muttered, legs swinging idly over the side of the upper bunk.

Peering into the tiny dresser mirror, Angela Martine squinted at a stray eyebrow hair. "Oh? Why's that?"

"He keeps pairing me up in the Bio labs with that horrid little Jamie Carr."

Angela winced. "He's not as bad as people make him out to be."

"He's every bit as bad, Angela! I can't even believe he's old enough to be a _cadet_ , let alone one of Spock's pet projects!"

"Obviously he knows what he's doing, or Mr. Spock wouldn't have him transferred to Bio from Medical," was the shrugged reply. "I doubt the Commander is trying purposely to annoy you, and you know it."

"Oh, I know it – and I love Mr. Spock, I really do," the redhead sighed, flopping dramatically back onto the bunk, legs still dangling over the side and uniform boots discarded on the floor below. "But he's just so…"

"Clueless about human males and their impulses?" Angela supplied tactfully.

"Yes!"

"Carr's not harassing you, is he? You know even Spock won't stand for that."

"No, no, nothing like that, he is quite harmless – at least so far. He's just like a little bitty lovestruck puppy, y'know? One that's probably more in love with a slight French accent than the fact that I can genetically engineer plague-resistant duotriticale?"

Angela hid a laugh behind a pair of tweezers as she went after the offending eyebrow. Robert was probably already loitering in the hall outside, somewhat like that cute lovestruck puppy her roommate was talking about. Only Robert wasn't a creeper, at least any longer, and he wasn't five years her junior, either. Five years was a bigger difference at twenty-two than at thirty, unfortunately for Ensign Carr. "And of course Mr. Spock wouldn't get it if you said the kid was stalking you," she mused aloud.

" _Oui_ , that is a bit overreaction, and if it comes to it I can handle this boy, have no doubt. Besides, can you not just hear the Commander asking for details for the official log?"

They thought for a moment about trying to explain to their gentle Vulcan Science Officer about the difference between a boy's infatuation and a man's affection, and how rapt attendance to one’s every move and daily offers of coffee were a form of unwanted attention.

Both of them burst into giggles at the mental image. "I can already see the eyebrows," Angela chortled, giving her hair a final fluff.

Monique slid gracefully to the floor and began shoving her feet back into the discarded boots. Honestly, whoever came up with this uniform design for Starfleet's female members deserved to be exiled to Rura Penthe. Lieutenant Uhura had mentioned trying to convince the Captain to waive regulation and allow everyone, not just the Engineering crew, to wear the pantsuits while on duty if they preferred, and she desperately hoped the Comms Chief would succeed. Granted, the regulation had been put into place decades ago as a way for species to easily and publicly identify with a specific gender, and it avoided unpleasant HR issues with those non-humanoid species in the 'Fleet whose genders were not easily discernable. But on a primarily humanoid starship, where many humanoids didn’t identify with one gender in particular, it was nothing more than a nuisance to not have a neutral option anyone could wear if they wished.

Also, the men’s boots were much more practical.

" _Oui_ , it would not be a good thing," she agreed, mentally bemoaning the fact that she was simply going to have to put up with eager!puppy!Jamie until Spock re-did the rotation schedules. "Do you think I could get transferred to Sulu's Botany lab instead?"

"Not without a valid reason; neither Mr. Spock nor Mr. Scott like to transfer personnel just for personality conflicts, and that comes straight down from Captain Kirk."

"Being followed around off-duty by a little boy who's only on the _Enterprise_ by virtue of his parents' Starfleet connections isn't enough?"

"Monique," her roommate said reprovingly. "He's a scientist, even if he is a bit young. And you know Captain Kirk doesn't just pick people for the _Enterprise_ based on their names."

"No? How d'you figure Jeffery Garrovick then?" she retorted. "He's in Engineering with you and the boyfriend all the time, and you've seen his work; do you think he got spectacular grades in the Academy? And it's not coincidence that Kirk served under Captain Garrovick on the _Farragut_ before its crew was nearly massacred?"

"Garrovick's a fine Security man," Angela said firmly. "If Kirk picked him for his name, he at least keeps him around because he's good at his job."

"And he is not, for instance, barely seventeen," Monique mumbled.

"You don't have a problem with Pavel Chekov, and he's by far younger than any of my other friends in Tactical."

"Chekov's annoyingly girl-crazy, but not…" the Frenchwoman paused, thinking, "…so infatuated with everything that walks by in a short skirt that it is uncomfortable. He understands that _nyet_ means _nyet_! It is about social cues!"

"So requisition the alternate uniform from Ship's Stores, and when Mr. Spock asks why you're out of dress code tell him his latest protégé seems to be paying _illogical_ attention to your legs instead of his bio-screen. I'm sure he'll agree with you rather than trying to explain that one to the Captain."

"If I can convince him, that is. You know how he is with his pet projects, and if there's no real harm being done. I do not wish to cause a problem, for the department or the boy, he is just immature. And yet..." she trailed off unhappily.

Angela half-turned, looking at her. "Carr really is bothering you, isn't he?" The other girl nodded. "Why don't you go talk to Christine Chapel, then?" she suggested. "You seem to get on well enough with her. I would say take it to Lieutenant Uhura but she's so tied up with the Comms overhaul it might be a while before you can catch her off-duty."

The young woman nodded slowly. "That is quite a good idea. I wonder if she's in Sickbay now?"

Angela poked her head out the door of their cabin, and then popped back in. "No idea, but the coast is clear if you want to make a run for it," she said with a grin, ignoring Tomlinson, who was unashamedly trying to peek into their cabin. "Stop that," she scolded, giving him a solid whack to the arm.

"Ow!"

"Aww, _mon_ _petit_ ," Monique crooned as she slipped past the couple, patting the sheepish engineer on the head as she passed (she was a good five inches taller than her roommate's significant other). Robert's ears turned a bright red. "Enjoy your evening, darling."

"Good luck, Monique!" Angela called back as they disappeared around the corner.

Monique sighed, and checked carefully around each corner on the way to Sickbay.

* * *

"Waaaalll, look what the cat dragged in." McCoy's drawl was specifically cultivated, with much experimentation, to needle their expressionless First Officer.

He was not disappointed.

Spock's eyebrows twitched in what McCoy knew by now to be irritation. "Doctor, I am a busy man, and you have interrupted an important experiment in the biometrics lab. If this was for no other reason than to waste my time with your childish vocabularic exercises, I shall take my leave."

"I'll show you childish, you green-blooded excuse for a -"

"Gentlemen," Chapel interrupted sharply, glaring at her CMO with a fearlessness that instantly raised her estimation a notch in Spock's eyes.

McCoy favored her with a sour look. "What?"

"You have a half-dozen crewmen receiving inoculations within hearing range outside. Play nice, or play _outside_." She disappeared with a swish of blue skirt out the door, letting in a whirl of sound and chatter for a moment before it slid shut again and muffled the hubbub of the outer ward.

The remaining occupants of the office glared at each other for a minute in stony silence.

Then -

"Proceed, Doctor."

"Look, I need you to -"

They both began speaking at the same time, whereupon Spock did the noble thing and gestured for the physician to proceed (he also knew that, in all probability, McCoy would simply go on until he ran down, and it was simpler just to let him speak).

The doctor leaned back in his chair, half-heartedly gesturing toward the one opposite him, on the other side of the desk. Spock raised an eyebrow, remaining at attention.

"Fine, whatever," McCoy grumbled. "We have a problem, Spock."

"We?"

"Yes, we," the doctor retorted. "It was your decision as much as mine and now it's just started all over again."

"Doctor, your abuse of indefinite personal pronouns is a disgrace to your language; please clarify."

"Ensign Jamie Carr, Mr. Spock."

"Ah."

Blue eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "And you call my indefinite Standard a disgrace to the language."

True to form, Spock ignored him, finally taking the seat across the desk in admittance the matter might take time to discuss. "I take it that the same problems which necessitated his transfer from Medical have arisen in my departments as well?"

McCoy nodded. "He's not doing anything that can technically be called harassment, he's just alienating a lot of the female crewmen he works with. This's the third complaint Chapel's fielded from someone in your labs, Spock, about the fact that they can't understand why he's one of your favored projects when he's not mature enough to behave himself like an adult."

Spock looked more affronted at the slight to his Vulcan objectivity than disturbed by the continued reports about his subordinate. "My personnel in Sciences believe me to be subjective in my dealings with the crew?"

The doctor brought his hand away from pinching his forehead with a curious look. "That bothers you, Mr. Spock?"

" _Concerns_ me is a more accurate term, Doctor. I was requested, by you specifically, to keep Mr. Carr under a close watch when possible after we made this transfer; I do not wish those under me to believe I am prejudiced in favor of certain crewmen over others. Such a thing is highly illogical."

"And yet it happens," McCoy reasoned. "No one's criticizing you having pet projects, Spock, because pretty much all of your people worship the ground you walk on, even I can see that. And those who don't, don't dare to say otherwise, not on this ship. We both know Jim would have them transferred at the next starbase if he didn't lose patience and boot 'em out in an escape pod before then. I wouldn't let it worry you too much."

"Worry is a human emotion, Doctor, and therefore a non-issue for me. We have digressed."

"Uh-huh. Keep tellin' yourself that. So anyway, I palmed Carr off on you when he was dragging my nursing staff's efficiency down to an unacceptable percentage, and now he's doing the same in your bio labs. If we transfer the kid one more time the Captain is going to expect a darn good reason for the rapid shift."

"Indeed. More than one departmental transfer in a six-month period, in cases other than promotion, must be directly approved by the captain of a starship." Spock's brows drew together slightly. "I do not believe the young man to be devoid of potential, Doctor, or possessing malicious intent."

"Me neither, I think he was just too immature and inexperienced for a posting of this importance," McCoy agreed. "But regardless, we've gotta do something before some less tolerant object of his fascination gives him a swift boot up the backside for his trouble."

"Quite," Spock intoned. "What do you suggest?"

"If we hadn't already transferred him once, I'd say let Carr serve a stint in Recycling and Sanitation on the delta shift, or maybe Stellar Cartography. Somewhere that the other crewmen basically do their own thing and there isn’t much chance for chit-chat during shift. But Jim would have to see that paperwork and will want to know why, if we do it now. The kid would be mortified, and Jim would be upset that there's trouble in the ranks. He doesn't really need to be notified of every single crew personality conflict, I think we both agree."

"Indeed." Spock looked thoughtful for a few moments, while the doctor tapped his fingers aimlessly on the table, trying to think of what to do. "Should I speak with Ensign Carr about his undesirable behavior, Doctor?" the Vulcan finally asked, genuinely curious.

McCoy tried valiantly not to laugh but didn't quite succeed. "If you want to embarrass the poor kid from here to the other side of Altair VI, Mr. Spock," he chortled, wiping his eyes. "I can't imagine how being given 'the talk' by your Vulcan CSO will affect his psyche!"

He received a well-practiced look of tolerant Vulcan derision. "I suppose you would be a better candidate for such, Doctor; after all, when it comes to utilizing the more annoying of human emotions you certainly have superior expertise." Ignoring the doctor's spluttering, he continued serenely, "I shall await the results of your discussion with the greatest enthusiasm."

"You - I am not going to - Spock, get your skinny butt back in here or so help me I will _refrigerate_ my instruments for your next physical!" he yowled out the now empty doorway.

Outside, Chapel paused and gave him a disapproving look before the doors closed between them.

"Great," he muttered, crossing his arms with understandable petulance. "I'm a doctor, not a relationship counselor." He'd told the captain more than once during the last two months that they really needed to employ a ship's counselor, and this clinched it.

He didn't get paid enough to put up with lovesick kids' dramas _and_ Spock being an insufferable know-it-all.

* * *

"Lieutenant Benet, a word."

Monique jumped, much to the amusement of the young biologist whom she was helping program algorithms for a hypothetical silicon-based lifeform. Spock had a very bad habit of sneaking up catlike behind his people and then making them nearly wet themselves with that sonorous voice booming into the concentrated silence.

"Sir?" she inquired curiously, as she left the tricorder and its programming to her superior and followed the Vulcan a few meters away for privacy. "Have I done something, Mr. Spock?"

"Rather, you have _not_ 'done something,' Lieutenant," was the calm reply.

"Commander?"

Spock's eyebrows inclined pointedly. "Lieutenant, if you are uncomfortable around any crewman under my command, regardless of what you mistakenly believe to be their differential status in my eyes, I expect to be told by you rather than the medical staff of the _Enterprise_ , out of concern for crew morale and interaction."

She flushed in embarrassment, feeling a tinge of anger that Chapel or McCoy had seen fit to broadcast what she'd intended as a personal issue. Technically she had been there as a friend rather than a patient, so there was no real breach of confidentiality, but just the same! Her severe Vulcan commander was the last person she would have wanted hearing about such issues.

Spock seemed to read her thoughts on her features, because his stern demeanor relaxed immediately. "I was not censuring your confiding in Nurse Chapel, Lieutenant; in fact I commend you for your pro-active reaction to Ensign Carr's…unwelcomed advances. And no one in Medical informed me of your complaint specifically. There have been…others. I have merely spent the last three days observing the staff of this laboratory, and have come to the most logical conclusion that you were likely one of them.”

"Well.” She shrugged. “You are not incorrect, sir. But I’d hesitate to call them advances, Mr. Spock. It hasn't come that far, yet. He's done nothing wrong, sir," she protested quietly, but trailed off at the Vulcan's dismissive shake of the head.

"Lieutenant, I appreciate your kindness toward the less mature members of this crew; however, I…" he seemed to pause, formulated the rest of his response carefully, and then continued after an awkward moment, "…desire to maintain equal relations with all crewmen under my command, and if you are in any way uncomfortable with a situation regarding a colleague I wish you to inform me of the conflict so that it can be rectified. If that idea produces yet more discomfort for you, please do as you have done and address the matter with a female member of the command crew. It is our job, Lieutenant," he added gently, as she stared at her boot-tips in mortification, "to see that such things do not occur between valued members of this crew."

Benet knew Spock-speak well enough by now to see that it was both an apology and a commendation for handling the situation properly, and also that Spock was apparently disturbed by the idea that some of his people thought he played favorites.

Perhaps he did, to a very small extent; but then so did Captain Kirk and no one hated him for it. Everyone aboard joked about the fact that Spock could abscond with the ship itself and get away with it (supposedly, at some point very early in this voyage, some said the Commander actually _had_ ), but it only made the crew love their close-knit command team more. Everyone in Sciences knew that both Spock and McCoy would bend over backwards to make each crewman feel that they were an individual rather than a nameless blue-shirt, and that ability to inspire was the primary reason for the _Enterprise_ having the best science teams in the entirety of Starfleet. If Spock did gravitate toward certain people - like Ensign Chekov, for instance, his new protégé - then it was because they deserved that recognition for special expertise or simply the fact that they understood how to respond to, respect, and flourish under a Vulcan's supervision: something not all crewmen did.

"Thank you, sir," Benet said simply, knowing that anything else would not be welcomed.

"Thanks are illogical, Lieutenant," was the dry (expected) reply, and she smiled.

"Of course, Commander," she said easily. "But permit the illogical humans our little idiosyncrasies, _oui_?"

The glint of humor in the Vulcan's eyes told her more than their conversation that she wouldn't need to resort to talking to Christine the next time she - or anyone she knew from now on - had a conflict with a crewman.

The fact that apparently McCoy and Spock were working together on crew psychology and morale was a bit frightening, but Monique was a scientist - and all scientists know that results speak for themselves. Bio-Medical consistently got outstanding results, even if their respective heads sometimes reacted like matter and antimatter.

And if it kept the crew entertained meanwhile, who could criticize their unique methods?

* * *

The third day after he'd come aboard as Chief Medical Officer, Leonard McCoy had informed his new Captain in no uncertain terms that he expected to have access to the Bridge whenever and whyever he wanted, and if the captain didn't like it then he should say so now so that McCoy knew to transfer to a smarter commanding officer. 

It had been a calculated gamble; he was nobody's fool and had studied the psych profiles of his young CO in detail before coming aboard. Kirk's had intrigued, horrified, and amused him in turns, and one thing he had to do first and foremost was learn how to act with the man to accomplish both what he wanted, and what was best for the captain of the Federation’s flagship.

His instincts served him well. After an initial incredulous look, Kirk had laughed aloud and agreed with no real argument. He had gone on to add with a smirk that he could see why the physician's previous captain had been over-eager to be rid of his meddling, and then warned McCoy to not overstep himself in the presence of his subordinates or get in the way of the workings of his ship.

And so on lazy days – weeks – like this, the physician enjoyed the privilege of fraternizing with the command crew; sitting boredly in his Sickbay for hours on end got old _real_ quick. Four whole weeks had passed at this stretch, without anything more serious aboard than one isolated case of bronchitis from a crewman stupidly going straight from the gym to bed without taking the time to shower and dry his head, and nothing more serious off-ship than a passing _Hi-you-guys-need-anything?_ to a freighter they'd encountered in the last sector.

McCoy had found soon after joining the _Enterprise_ , however, that these stints of absolute boredom wreaked havoc with the tightly-strung command crew, and especially with the crew's dynamo of a captain.

 _And here my staff say **I'm** cranky when I don't get my own way_, he thought one morning as James T. Kirk entered Officers' Mess with don't-even-talk-to-me-until-after-my-coffee written all over his grumpy countenance.

The sole ensign who was brave enough to chirp a cheery good-morning to his captain was somewhat mystified to receive only a glare in return as the man slumped into the chair next to his Chief Medical Officer. Luckily, the young man was good-natured himself and only refrained from laughing at the captain's mood, rather than taking offense. Well, these kids were selected for their smarts, on this ship; good to know that wasn't just 'Fleet scuttlebutt. This one would survive a while, at least.

McCoy had no such restrictions on taking pleasure in his CO's misery, however, and chuckled into his heavily-sweetened tea (Georgia boys did not drink that swill Jim called coffee, thank you very much).

Then he caught sight of the plate before the younger man, and the amusement promptly turned into a scowl. "What exactly are you tryin' to do, clog your arteries completely in a twenty-four hour span of time?" he asked, incredulously eyeing the enormous cup of coffee and plate of syrup-laden strawberry waffles.

"When I want your prognosis, _Doctor_ , I'll ask for it," the captain grunted shortly, slugging down half the coffee in one drink. "Until then, keep it in your office."

The physician gave him a calculating look; Kirk's eyes were strained, slightly bloodshot, carrying the darkness of vitamin depletion and sleep deprivation below their lower lids. It was not uncommon for captains and high-ranking officers to have difficulty sleeping; that was a proven 'Fleet medical fact, but he'd had no complaints from the man about his sleeping habits. Most men simply asked for a knockout pill for a few days, until the insomnia corrected itself naturally. Kirk had asked him for nothing. Either the man was sick, instead of sleep-deprived, or else he was more stubborn than McCoy had heretofore given him credit for being.

And then there was the eating pattern, which he only now began to see as a vague outline in his mind. He'd personally seen Kirk go without food without a second thought on a disastrous rescue mission – gave it to his subordinates, and ran on fumes and a bit of water for three days, all without really showing any ill effects. And he knew for fact from the first physical he'd performed on the man, that his metabolism was far higher than any other crew member aboard; he fairly exuded adrenaline and nervous energy, one reason why he was so distinct as a vibrant, unusually animated commander.

And yet, even with a metabolic rate like that, the captain appeared to have an ongoing issue with maintaining a stable weight, a back and forth that was entirely unnatural for a healthy human male with the active lifestyle afforded to the captain of a starship, much less one that fairly shone energy as bright as a star everywhere he went. It wasn’t significant enough to really be an issue, as the man exercised rigorously even outside of the demanding physical activity of regular away missions, and Lord knew the captain’s twice-weekly shipwalks were more steps than most crewmen took in a week. That, in itself, was what made the food issue strange enough to catch his medical attention.

Now, McCoy observed, he knew Kirk did not have a habit of eating unhealthy foods; as a general rule, he'd observed the captain eat fairly sensibly. His meal card carried several choices, but none that were ridiculously high in fats or complex carbohydrates, and he doubted the man was getting sweets from someone else. Interesting.

Once the captain was over the growling phase and had moved on to coffee number three, the doctor excused himself and returned to his office, intent upon pulling up the eating records of the captain's meal card for the last five months, since he'd come aboard.

What he found, when cross-referenced with the ship's logs, pointed to one extremely obvious and almost too-easy conclusion.

* * *

"You are describing the psychological process known as 'bingeing,' Doctor, albeit in a more subdued way than the traditional term indicates," was Spock's highly disapproving, and disbelieving, response.

"No, no! For the love of – it's nothing like that," he was quick to protest, sighing at the Vulcan's ridiculous habit of picking apart every detail he spoke. It had been aggravating his first week aboard, and had only gotten worse from there. But now wasn't the time to think about how much he enjoyed riling up the First Officer, or to put into practice his skill in doing so. "It's not bingeing, Commander; if a Starfleet officer had such a severe eating disorder he'd never have made it through the psych evals his first semester at the Academy. It's more of a…I don't even know what to call it really, it's just a _pattern_."

"Clarify, Doctor."

"It's not that serious, just a...a pattern of comfort foods, I guess you could call it."

"Comfort foods?" The clueless expression on the Vulcan's face was hilarious. "I am unaware of how a food is capable of administering emotional assistance to your species, Doctor, and therefore am entirely ignorant of this term's meaning."

"Ugh, I don't know why I'm even bothering with you." He sighed. "Look, I'm sure Vulcans don't have such things as favorite foods, Spock, since having preferences is _illogical_ ," the doctor replied dryly. "But we humans do. And it's a fairly common occurrence for people to eat things they _enjoy_ , whether they're healthful or not, when they're under emotional or physical stress. Or boredom, as the case may be and as I think the case _is_ , here."

Spock's eyebrows clearly said _what an idiotic and illogical notion, Doctor_.

McCoy ignored the look. "Statistically, it is slightly more common in women, as their slightly more hormonal states are as a general rule more under fluctuation than men – but it's not relegated solely to them by any means. Like I said, it's fairly common among the species as a whole, and what I'm talking about right now isn't an eating disorder, so if I hear even a hint of that leaving this room, I swear to God, Spock..." he added, dead serious.

The Vulcan's features shifted slightly. "That would be unethical, Doctor. And...unacceptable."

"Well, we agree on something finally."

"Do you have a point to this conversation, Doctor McCoy?"

"I'm getting to it! I'm just saying, it's nothing more than a simple bad habit, Mr. Spock."

"In other words, you believe the captain to have such a habit?"

"Would I be talkin' to you about it if I wasn't sure?" he retorted indignantly. "It's none of your business anyway, it's just that Jim usually eats with you and someone has to start keeping tabs on his caloric intake at certain times."

"Would that not be your purview, Doctor, as you can control what his meal card will permit him to order? I believe the humans call the process _dieting_."

McCoy shook his head slowly. "It's not really serious enough for that," he said thoughtfully. "I'd rather not have to do that unless it becomes absolutely necessary for the sake of his health."

Spock looked unconvinced. "You have yet to show me any evidence that this…habit, is truly in existence with the Captain's meals, Doctor."

The physician sighed, and punched a button on his keyboard to pull up a graph on the enlarged holographic wall screen. "This is the record of his meal card, Spock; what he orders and when. For example, in the last ten-day period, he's ordered two chicken sandwiches, one vegetable soup, thirty-four cups of coffee – good Lord, he could stand to lay off that at least – and the list goes on, right down to the amount of sweetener he orders on his cornflakes."

"While none of the meals are entirely healthy as a salad, for instance, I fail to see a true problem here, Doctor. His selections are no more varied than any ordinary non-vegetarian human's would be."

"Here, no. But when you pull up the graphs for the last five months, Spock…look."

The Vulcan's eyebrows knitted slightly. "I take it you are concerned with –"

"For example, those danged waffles he had this morning. In the one hundred fifty days since our starting out on this mission, he's ordered them seventeen times."

"That is not an outrageous number, Doctor, as I am sure you are aware. They are one of the most popular items on the breakfast menu in senior Officers' Mess."

"But each of those times was in one of two circumstances. One, the morning after a mission went wrong, Mr. Spock," McCoy said softly. "The morning after he lost a man on a landing party or something similar."

The Vulcan was silent, his eyes narrowing in on the graph, which was now overlaid with the incidents marked from the ship's logs.

"Each time – look here, this is after the incident on Dhertos II, where we lost those four hostages to that terrorist group; we didn't lose a crewman but that was a disaster anyway. Here, he had chicken soup for dinner, followed by chocolate cake. And the next morning, two donuts and those four cups of coffee. Usually he's not that careless about it; if he has an unhealthy dinner, he'll have fruit and oatmeal the next morning. But each time something happens on this ship, Mr. Spock, he's followed this pattern. The other end of the spectrum produces the same results; look here. During points where there have been more than two days without any incident, he's been driven to it by sheer _boredom_ probably."

Slowly, Spock nodded, dark eyes tracing the patterns on the graphs. "I see your point, Doctor."

"None of it is even extreme, either. So I'm not sayin' it's anything more than a subconscious desire for what humans call comfort food, Commander," the physician was quick to clarify. "But if he can find some _other_ way to work out that stress and boredom, it'd be healthier for him, mentally as well as physically. Not like he's going to come asking for help, either, or that he’d take my advice on the matter if I offered it unsolicited."

At the still-distrustful look he received, he sighed, and turned the wall screen off with a resigned gesture. "Mr. Spock, my only concern here is the well-being of the captain – which should be the primary concern of any starship's Chief Medical Officer, _and_ the ship's second-in-command," he spoke directly, letting the severity of his tone speak through to that cold logic he never could seem to get past with this man. "I have no intention of filing any kind of report regarding the changes in his eating schedule, but I will impose a diet if I have to. I'd rather not have to."

"What do you propose to do, then, Doctor?"

McCoy threw up his hands in exasperation at the expressionless tone. "I have no idea, for the love of Pete! You're the one who normally eats with him after those catastrophes of missions, haven't you ever noticed that he's not himself?"

"I...have not, Doctor." Was that a twinge of discomfort in the otherwise flat tone? "The captain can be quite the consummate actor regarding whatever he chooses, you must be aware of that."

"Yeah, I am," McCoy sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "It's too much to ask you to be _concerned_ about him, I suppose." He received no answer; and what fun was there in needling someone who never even got offended? "At least, as his First Officer, surely you can find some activity that might take his mind off things instead of just letting him brood about it until he subconsciously turns to, I don't know, the ship's Terran apple pie recipe to burn off that nervous energy?"

Spock's eyebrows did a disappearing act. "An…activity?"

"Sparring in the gym? Walk the ship with him? Use that danged bowling alley, I don’t care. You mean you've known him for more than five months and you two don't do anything at all together except talk ship's business or play a chess game?" he asked incredulously.

"Social interaction is an unnecessarily human activity. I have never given the matter a thought, Doctor," was the apparently truthful, and slightly intrigued, reply.

The doctor turned intense blue eyes on the taller man, the glare stabbing from them enough to make the Vulcan's skin crawl. "Then think about it, Commander, or we're both going to have a problem on our hands before too long," he growled, and waved an empty hypospray casing in dismissal.

* * *

Spock was slightly puzzled by the information he had just been given; not only did he not comprehend in the least how a human could be 'comforted' by edible products, he also was slightly disconcerted at the thought that Jim – that _the captain_ had for some time been so distraught by the deaths of his men or innocent civilians that his eating and sleeping habits had suffered without any notice until this morning. Whatever Spock’s problems with their irascible and highly antagonistic CMO, he was however grateful for the human's quick insight.

While pondering the matter, he did remember times as a child on Vulcan, in which he wondered why his mother was in such a terrible mood when there was no logical reason for being so. He would hear his father sigh tolerantly, and Sarek would inexplicably go all the way to Shi'Kahr's spaceports to see if he could locate any (obviously imported) chocolate for his irritable human wife.

Spock had never quite understood the process, but apparently it was logical to fetch what one's bondmate wished if she was so unhappy, even if the item was highly illogical and horrendously expensive on a planet whose inhabitants did not imbibe the substance. He duly took note of the fact.

Apparently human women were not the only gender of the species who were subject to such things; and besides, he had observed that the captain was closely connected with each of his crew and took their welfare far more seriously than he did his own. No doubt, humans had very few mechanisms with which to cope with the grief and guilt that could be compartmentalized and controlled by Vulcan custom and training. The same could likely be said of boredom; it was a foreign concept to a Vulcan, but likely not so, to a human.

Perhaps that was it. The captain would be highly suspicious were he to increase the frequency of their chess matches or exercise sessions, for those were carefully and rigidly scheduled due to their own responsibilities. He would also likely be suspicious of a sudden push from his First Officer to begin eating more vegetarian dishes than usual, so McCoy’s suggestion of mealtime monitoring did not have much merit. Any other shipboard activity he could think of involved far more crew interaction than would be healthy for the captain if the man were in emotional distress (not to mention it would be his last choice, as he himself preferred solitude).

But Kirk might be amenable to learning basic Vulcan meditation techniques, enough at least to calm his nerves and curb whatever impulses were behind McCoy's concerns for his health and welfare.

He put his theory into test the next time a mission went wrong.

They had lost only one man to injury (thankfully not death), but the captain was taking it as personally as if he had lost ten; and it had been the young man's fault for not completely following orders and reading the reports that indicated which plants were poisonous on the planet and which were harmless. Still, the crewman's severe allergic reaction weighed visibly on the captain now that Spock was seeking signs of it.

Thursdays were one of their scheduled chess nights, unless they were otherwise occupied, and Kirk showed up two minutes early at his door, asking if they could play in Spock's quarters instead of the Rec Room – a clear indication of his state of mind, as usually the hubbub of his crew served to encourage him rather than cause him to withdraw. McCoy's words ringing in his mind as warning, Spock had seized the opportunity and invited the human in, then lowered the temperature to a comfortable medium between their two preferences. Kirk put up the token protest but fell silent after little argument, staring at the chess board as if already contemplating his next move.

Spock had moved to the small beverage selector officers were permitted in their quarters, and instead of bringing coffee for the human instead brought two cups of Vulcan spice tea – renowned for its soothing and relaxing qualities in many species, not just Vulcanoid ones.

Surprised, Kirk looked dubiously down at the drink, observed candidly that it smelled rather like wet clay, but obligingly sipped at it over the course of the game.

When, halfway through, it became obvious that the human's mind was not on his play, Spock paused the game.

"Captain, you are too troubled regarding today's mission for our game to be equally stimulating," he said quietly, as Kirk gave up in despair, not caring enough to even protest the putting away of the board half-finished.

The captain rubbed the back of his neck, painfully rolling it from side to side as if trying to release tension from the muscles there. "I know," he admitted. "I'm sorry, Spock."

"There is no need to apologize for what is beyond your control, Captain."

"I've told you, Spock, you can call me Jim when we're not on duty."

It was a plea this time, an almost desperate one, and to refuse to give comfort when it was in one's power to do so was not logical. "Jim," he amended, and the human's face brightened. "If you wish to continue the game another night, I am amenable to that suggestion."

"Thanks, Spock. I appreciate it." Kirk sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose with one unsteady hand.

Now was the chance to play his gambit, and hope the human would fall into the carefully-planned trap. "I shall spend the remainder of the evening in meditation then, Jim. Do not feel that you must leave," he added quickly, as the human stood immediately to give him privacy.

"But…won't I distract you?" Kirk asked curiously, for he had never before, to Spock's knowledge, been told of Vulcan practices. And, one characteristic which had immediately drawn Spock to this remarkable human, Kirk had never inquired into cultural privacy, unlike many impolite humans in the Vulcan's past.

"Negative." Spock shook his head, for that much at least was true; he had given the matter long and careful thought. "Vulcans are taught a focus, a…center, if you will, with which to anchor ourselves so as to successfully shut out the chaos of the world around us. You will not disturb me."

"An anchor…" the human mused aloud, eyes glinting in curiosity and thoughtfulness. "That seems quite logical. How else would you order your mind so meticulously?"

"Quite so." He was pleased, for Kirk showed remarkable understanding and respect for Vulcan culture, one quality that had drawn Spock to the intriguing young man since his first step aboard. "Meditation is the primary method we use in categorizing and controlling those emotions which our ancestors permitted free rein."

The human's gaze turned from hazel to sharp brilliant green in an instant, picking up on the smallest details. "Then you do have them; you simply know how to handle them," he stated, a smile lurking at the corner of his lips.

"Call it what you wish, Captain," he replied easily, circumventing the statement with as much finesse as possible when in five seconds this remarkable man had cut to the truth where most did not care to discern, only presume.

He settled on the floor, carefully lighting the fire-pot and candles, filling the air with the subtle tang of incense – all much more of a show than he would typically perform in privacy, and for a single purpose.

He knew his curious, daring captain well enough by now to not be surprised at the nervous shifting that took place in the human's chair. Ten, fifteen, twenty-three seconds exactly, before Kirk had crouched down cautiously in front of him.

"Can I watch? Will that bother you?" he asked quietly. "You may be truthful, Mr. Spock; I have no wish to desecrate your traditions by my presence. Will it disturb you if I stay so close?"

"I believe, in order, your answers are affirmative, negative, and negative, Jim." The humor was not lost on the younger man, for a sunny smile broke momentarily through the clouds of guilt that obscured Kirk's countenance. "You will, however, need to seat yourself upon those cushions," he added, indicating the several comfortable ones across from him, placed there carefully by him before opening the door for their game tonight.

Kirk cast a pointed glance at the bare floor upon which he was sitting.

"Your human circulatory system is not equipped to compensate for several hours' worth of little to no motion, Captain," he explained with a perfect lack of guile. "Besides, you will not be actually entering into the levels of meditation and as such will be aware of your surroundings; to do so in discomfort is illogical."

"Okay," the human agreed easily, and crawled into a relaxed position atop one of the cushions, squirming for a moment until he was comfortable. "Perhaps some of your tranquility will rub off on me, Mr. Spock," he said with a small smile, leaning back against the wall.

"You could, in theory, learn the basic levels of meditation, Captain," he spoke, and thereby played his trump card, gambling on the nature of the man before him. "They are not difficult, and could offer a suitable alternative for you when sleep is not available; such situations arise frequently, as you are aware, while starships are on high alert status, for example."

Appealing both to the curiosity and the rationality was always an effective two-edged sword; and, already lulled into a mellow state by the tea and incense, Kirk was only too eager to learn more.

An hour later, Spock had coaxed, cajoled, encouraged, and nearly lost all patience with the human, for Kirk's dynamic mind was utterly unable to reach even the first level of peace which began the process of meditation. The human's emotions were too chaotic, his thoughts too vivid and quick-moving, his very nature too energetic, to successfully master the art. To use a human turn of phrase, Kirk was a totally lost cause.

But Spock had suspected this already, and was therefore not disappointed. Instead, he encouraged the human to try once more. Kirk was already more calm, more relaxed, though he had not succeeded in the technicalities of meditation, and so had no idea how thoroughly he had failed the Vulcan test. Instead, he smiled his thanks and began anew, closing his eyes for the instructed one-hundred-eighty seconds.

Only this time, Spock did not tell him when those seconds were up, only began slowly projecting an aura of calm and peace as best he could into the room. Kirk was of course not telepathic, but he had shown a remarkable receptivity to psionic persuasion. And while Vulcans were touch-telepaths, they did have a limited empathic ability which would equate to what humans called a 'sixth sense.' That was to Spock's advantage now, as he slowly wove a network of peace around the drowsing human.

And when, three minutes and twelve seconds later, Kirk's breathing dropped into the rhythmic cadence indicating peaceful sleep and the human unconsciously slumped over onto the cushions with a muffled thump, he allowed his lips to quirk at the corner in a tiny gesture of satisfaction.

Then he logged a report to Dr. McCoy, and dimmed the lights in preparation for his own meditation. Perhaps it would do little good for the human's eating habits, but at least it might aid his state of mind.

He knew the experiment had been a success – and that he had acquired the man's complete trust – when the captain returned for another 'lesson' after the incident on the Tantalus penal colony, and then again after the entourage of Kodos the Executioner had been taken off the _Enterprise_.

Dr. McCoy was insufferably smug for a fortnight after Spock's report, but that (most unfortunately) was nothing new.


	3. Chapter Three

**IV. Pulled Out of the Fire**

"Soooo, you survived I see," a by-now familiar Southern drawl greeted his entrance to Sickbay with evil intent.

He favored McCoy with a glare, specially tailored and honed to this particular human's annoying habit of evoking the urge to give in to the Ancient Ways and throttle his enemies, in the person of an extremely annoying and dubiously competent Chief Medical Officer.

"Obviously."

"And we got the mining contract, I assume."

"Given the fact that had we not done so, we would still be in orbit, I hold little hope for the development of your observational and deductive skills, Doctor. Perhaps you should confine your attempts to tricorder readings."

"Shut up and _get_ up there on the bed, you green-blooded menace," McCoy muttered, giving him a not-very-gentle nudge with the sharp edge of a data-padd. "Captain's orders, all returning parties submit to a physical exam, so you can take your bad attitude up with him."

Spock ignored the human's lack of respect and personal space, choosing his battles with care in this particular arena. He settled gingerly on the bed and nodded in silent gratitude when McCoy hauled out a small heat lamp and trained it on his person. "I take it, Doctor, that you are nearly complete with the crew evaluations?"

"You're one of the last, the other dozen are scheduled today and tomorrow. I'll have the reports for you tomorrow night at the latest. I can tell you even without correlating spreadsheets, though, that if we don't get shore leave in the next two weeks we're gonna have a mutiny or else a widespread decrease in efficiency on our hands. Breathe deep for me, Commander."

He did so, and waited for the physician to record the results before asking for clarification. "Has efficiency truly dropped that far, Doctor?"

"Across the board, yes – definitely the worst widespread case I've ever seen on a starship. I've got sixty-three crewmen who are in a state of psychological emergency, and even the command crew, usually the highest ratings regardless of stress levels, are falling so low that it would raise a red alert in any medical diagnostic software." McCoy gestured toward his legs and then lowered the bed to a reclining position when he shifted to the proper stance. "Everybody except you, in fact, seems to be in the danger zone regarding crew efficiency, morale, and psych and socio profiling. In plain English, it's just been too long without a break for us poor humans, Mr. Spock."

"And does the captain fall into this 'danger zone,' Doctor?"

"He does, Mr. Spock." It was no breach of patient confidentiality, as the captain's psychological condition was shared between Medical and the First Officer at all times and Kirk was well aware of the fact. Spock regarded it as the foremost of his duties, and McCoy was happy to oblige the overprotective instincts of the galaxy's most perceptive species. "His social standings among the crew, especially, have dropped far too low, and he's normally so far above average in those ratings that the drop is even more alarming. His headaches and stress levels are directly related, I believe, and have increased in duration and frequency during the last month. You know how stressful it's been."

"Indeed, Doctor." The last few months had indeed been mentally and emotionally draining for Captain Kirk personally, more so than the rest of the crew. The reappearance of Kodos the Executioner, Kirk's (thankfully unsuccessful) court martial, followed up closely by Spock's own (necessary, but distressing) mutiny to get Christopher Pike to Talos IV…if the remainder of the five-year mission were to follow the pattern set by this initial nine-month period, then the _Enterprise_ was, as the humans would say, destined for trouble, and her captain along with her.

Spock sat back up at the physician's curt gesture, and then removed his uniform tunic with reluctance, mitigated somewhat when McCoy turned the heat lamp to its fullest wattage. Even so, he still shivered once reflexively, and the doctor gave him a sympathetic look which he fully ignored. "If we do not encounter a planet in the next week suitable for shore leave purposes, Doctor, I will make a recommendation that we stop at Starbase Seven for refueling and supply exchange. Even a short leave time for the crew majority should improve these ratings."

"Command isn't gonna give us much leave time at a starbase that crowded, but I don't see any alternative," McCoy agreed with a scowl, scribbling notes on his padd. "And you know doggone well that Jim won't take it until the whole crew has had it, unless you physically drag him to the transporter."

"If that is necessary, I am certainly physically capable of doing so," Spock replied, entirely unperturbed.

A dry chuckle. "I'd pay good credits to see it, Commander. Okay, you can put your shirt back on. You're healthy as ever, disgustingly so, Mr. Spock. Although even your serotonin levels are low, and that’s saying a _lot_ for you. If you have the opportunity I'd recommend you take a half-day off and spend it meditating, or whatever it is you do to deal with us lesser mortals."

"I sometimes wonder, myself, Doctor," was the bland response, as Spock took the opportunity offered to him and made a hasty exit before the physician changed his mind.

McCoy only smirked and returned to correlating his reports, satisfied that he'd successfully planted the bug in the proper ear (pointed though it might be) to force the captain into some R&R by any logical means possible.

Now, if he could wrangle some shore leave time himself with that pert little Yeoman Tonia Barrows, who had been anything _but_ subtle during her own physical examination, that would just be butter on the biscuit…

* * *

Dr. Leonard H. McCoy was a man who knew his own mind. However, in this very notable exception, he wasn't quite sure if he should still be extremely ticked off, just wash his hands of the whole shebang, or in some weird way feel very honored (how many people in the galaxy can boast that they've been asked to be a Vulcan groomsman?) – and so he settled for some combination of the three.

He was still a sight angry with Spock for not telling him what was going on with the Vulcan's health physically and mentally; because even if the idiot understandably didn't want to spill his guts about his personal life, the doctor would have been able to at least alleviate the worst of the physical symptoms with some experimenting! It shouldn't have taken a combination of Jim's coddling and plain old-fashioned desperation to coax the walking database into admitting he was out of control, and there was nothing logical about refusing to accept help in at least controlling a raging fever, for pity’s sake. His degree was in xenobiology and not human biology for a _reason_ , and so he informed Spock at length after they'd dropped their unhappy captain into Admiral Komack's greedy clutches at Altair VI.

Spock took the ranting in stride, though he had the grace to look slightly ashamed, and gave him some line of bull about Vulcan privacy and taboos and never having encountered the situation before and so on and so on, until McCoy had finally had enough and interrupted him with a slap of angry hand on the desk.

"Enough," he snarled, eyes sparking fury. "You endangered the life of the 'Fleet's most important First Officer, the safety of this ship and her crew, and – what I think's probably more important to you – you severely endangered the captain's career and then his _life_ with this little stunt!"

Spock's eyes darkened in what he could only assume to be shame, as he didn't know the Vulcan like Jim did, to be expert in interpreting those tiny expressions. "Doctor –"

"Shut it," he snapped. "Your physical and mental condition couldn't be helped, Mr. Spock, and to feel guilty over a simple fact of species biology is illogical." He rolled his eyes as the bald fact produced a blush and a twitch of embarrassment. "But refusing to seek out medical assistance, or any assistance at all until you were past help – that, is something I can't live with, as the Chief Medical Officer of this ship."

"Doctor, even the remote possibility will not occur again for another seven years –"

"I don't care if it's seven years or seven days, Spock, I won't let you endanger yourself and this ship again because you're a stubborn fool!"

Spock cringed – actually cringed, McCoy heard the chair squeak as he shifted – and fell silent, staring stonily at the desk top.

He took a deep breath, seeing that his anger was having the opposite effect it normally did on his unwilling patient. He and Spock were like combustible chemicals; they fed off each other in perfect conflict, a diametric opposite to Spock and Jim's perfect synchronicity. His volatile human emotion usually produced more sense and logic from their impassive First Officer – which was the main reason he purposely antagonized the Vulcan when it suited his purpose, usually to calm matters down or to produce a solution he was incapable of coming up with alone. Jim thought they just liked to argue with each other, and there was an element of truth in that assumption; but it was more than that. They worked well together not by cooperation but by a sort of oddly symbiotic conflict, a strange co-existence that puzzled everyone who watched their interactions.

But now…now, Spock was backing away from any confrontation, declining to rise to his bait, refusing to even so much as look him in the eyes. He knew their stubborn First was far from well, even three days after the events on Vulcan, knew that Jim was still worried sick about his emotional condition, knew that Spock was obviously still teetering on a fragile edge of Vulcan control despite being put on light duty (and that, only because Jim insisted Spock needed some semblance of normality to regain control over his life).

McCoy paced a tense beeline to the opposite wall, brows clenched in fearsome thought, and then wheeled about to return – and for the first time really took a good look at the one crewman aboard who could get under his skin in less time than it took to so much as say good-morning.

And now…he saw nothing more than a confused, ill member of a very private species having been stripped of all he held sacred, completely against his will, having been rejected humiliatingly by his intended, and now being forced to live with the knowledge that his foolhardiness in seeking help had nearly cost him the life of the one human McCoy thought he might just consider to be – horror of Vulcan horrors! – a friend.

Spock was just staring at the corner of the paperwork-cluttered desk, blank misery evident in every tense line of his posture.

"Aw, geez, Spock," he muttered finally, and scuffed an ill-deserving boot at the desk edge. Because really, if he kept going this was just going to be nastily similar to kicking an orphaned kitten. An extremely annoying, normally extremely smug, kitten with hidden claws – but still, in the realm of brutal human emotion, the emotional range of a kitten.

He stalked across the room again to his office beverage replicator – one of the very few perks of being a ranking officer – and fiddled with the settings for a moment, conscious of Spock's quizzical gaze between his shoulder blades. Finally, a dull chime sounded and the cranky machine spit out what he hoped was some approximation to his intent. Snagging a colorful glass bottle and a shot glass from his secret stash on his way, he puttered back to the desk and set the replicated drink before his incredulous superior with a flourish of smug drama.

"What, exactly, is this…substance, purported to be, Doctor?" Spock inquired, looking dubiously down his nose at the curls of steam using the same expression with which he viewed congealing blood in the bio labs.

"Mmm, a little of this, a little of that," he replied carelessly, pouring a small measure of Jim's last birthday gift for himself. "Mostly coffee liquor and hot chocolate, a bit of caramel spice, and so on."

Spock's eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "Doctor, that sounds highly unpalatable. I have no intention of –"

"Shut up," he said pleasantly, toasting the disapproving glare with his own glass. "Look, if y'don't want my help with your Vulcan issues, then you're getting the kind of moral support I'd give a _human_ who's just been dumped by his girlfriend. So cheers, Mr. Spock."

Spock actually _twitched_ at the expression, which he regarded gleefully as a small victory.

"I'd take you down to Altair VI's main spaceport and let you drink away your sorrows in one of the seaside bars, but with Jim's luck Komack will somehow find us, and you know how that will go," he added, silently toasting the captain's fortitude in the unpleasant face of one of the few people who literally could not stand him.

Spock's expression morphed further into thinly veiled disgust. "My absence is no doubt contributing to the admiral's belligerent attitude. I should be with the captain," he murmured, looking down at the desk once more.

"You should be in bed, trying to get your heart rate and brain chemistry back to normal, whatever that happens to be for you – but I'm just the ship's Chief Medical Officer, what do I know!" He gave the steaming drink another nudge, and amusedly watched as his unhappy First Officer correspondingly scooted his chair back from it. "And Jim's command decisions are his own. You know as well as I do that once he's made up his mind nothing short of an apocalypse can change it. Not even you."

"Indeed," was the morose response.

Okay, so this wasn't going the way he had hoped. Time to call in reinforcements; and thankfully, he had originally planned this impromptu therapy session to end about when Jim was scheduled to beam back aboard the ship, after the planetside diplomatic dinner. Nobody could play good-cop-bad-cop with a Vulcan like he and Jim could, although the captain was likely to be in such a foul mood it might take a bit more alcohol than the man could legally consume while aboard ship.

As it stood, he was not forced to resort to any extreme measures. Spock barely retaliated to his jabs during the next two minutes, after which the doors of Sickbay opened to reveal a very haggard-looking James T. Kirk, already tugging at his tight dress collar and scowling fit to frighten new cadets out of the Academy straightaway.

"That bad, huh," he observed, as the man flopped rather than sat in the chair beside Spock.

"I swear, Komack wants me booted out of the 'Fleet altogether, for reasons I'm unaware of," Kirk sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and then his temples in a familiar gesture that indicated an approaching headache. "Besides the recent obvious, that is," he added, with a sidelong, rueful grin at his silent First.

Spock's expression, if anything, grew more shuttered, and the smile slowly disappeared as Kirk glanced across the desk, a question burning in his eyes. McCoy shook his head barely perceptibly.

"I apologize for my lack of attendance tonight, Captain," came the low reply, a moment later. "No doubt the admiral's hostility was compounded by my absence, given T'Pau's censure of his actions and subsequently the lack of a complete command presence for his propagandic purposes tonight."

"No officer of mine's going to become nothing more than a pretty face for some jackass to show off in front of a new Federation member," Kirk retorted hotly, finally giving the stubborn dress jacket a yank that broke an eyelet hook holding it fastened at his throat. "You, my telepathic friend, were in no condition to be subjected to a room full of beings who broadcasted smugness and pompous idiocy so loudly that even _I_ could sense it." He glanced around the desk briefly. "Bones, have you got another glass around here somewhere?"

"You're not drinkin' anything stronger than coffee if you're getting a migraine," he responded tartly, rummaging through his top drawer for the usual tri-ox and muscle relaxant combination hypospray he favored over a standard painkiller for Kirk's occasional headaches.

"Aww, Bones!"

"You are welcome to the…concoction, with which the doctor graced my palate, sir," Spock interjected, surprising both of them with his first voluntary speech all day.

The captain gave the mug an experimental sniff. "Smells good enough…what is it?"

"Spiked hot chocolate, basically," McCoy replied absently, eyes on the hypospray as he measured out the appropriate dosage to put the captain to sleep within an hour; he'd need the rest if he had to beam back down tomorrow for final appearances at the farewell banquets. Komack had made it quite clear that he basically _owned_ Captain James T. Kirk for the next three days, in revenge for the bullet they'd just neatly dodged thanks only to the influence of the reigning clan matriarch of Vulcan.

"He's trying to get you drunk, Spock?"

"Vulcan physiology is quite capable of metabolizing alcohol, except in very rare and extremely potent liquors such as Romulan ale, which carry such a high alcohol concentration that it is possible to become intoxicated from them."

"So…it's the chocolate you can't metabolize, is what you're saying? I didn't know that about your people, Spock." The captain's lips curved gently in a genuine smile, as he was obviously thinking of future times to employ his new knowledge.

"There is much you do not know about my people, sir," Spock replied quietly, staring down into the curling wisps of steam. "A fact which has cost us all dearly in past days."

"Are you still on about that?" Kirk asked incredulously, pausing in his forehead-rubbing to stare openly at his subordinate. "Can't you get it through your head that I've long since forgiven you, even though you don't really _need_ forgiveness since you had no control over what you were doing - and heaven knows while Bones can carry a grudge to the end of time he's oath-bound not to do so under extenuating medical circumstances?"

McCoy nearly dropped the hypo in his surprise at hearing the man lay it all out there in the open so easily, though the captain's low tolerance after a long day of being Komack's trained puppy to heel on command probably triggered the lack of tact. Usually no one dealt with Spock's edgy half-humanity with more finesse, but the man had just up and slapped his First upside the head with the heart of the matter in a blatant surge of frankness that did McCoy's blunt heart good to see.

Spock looked a bit like a woodland animal trapped in the glare of a hunter's flashlight.

"Oh, gods, I have such a headache," the captain groaned, head in his hands. "Spock, do us all a favor and forgive yourself, will you? What do I have to do to convince you there's no need for all this?"

Finally adjusting the proper hypo dosage, McCoy stared wide-eyed as the Vulcan suddenly picked up the mug of modified hot chocolate and drained half of it in one go. Kirk peeked out warily from behind his hands, obviously shocked.

"You okay there?"

" _Zaprah-yut_ ," Spock murmured, almost too quietly to be overheard.

"Didn't catch that, Commander."

" _Zaprah-yut_ , Doctor," the Vulcan declared with more volume, either from the liquid courage or just a final cessation of resistance to what he considered the inevitable. "The Vulcan principle of justice. I believe your own people called it in ancient days, _An eye for an eye_."

McCoy stared at him, mouth falling open slightly. He barely noticed the captain snatch the hypo in exasperation and apply it to his own neck with practiced ease, looking thoroughly cranky and about to unleash a truckload of captain tantrum in true Kirkian style.

"Let me get this straight, Commander," Kirk said with admirably calm slowness, leaning forward in his chair so that their knees nearly touched. Spock didn't move, but neither did he look up. "Your principles of Vulcan justice, this _zaprah-yut,_ adhere to that….I suppose one could call it _logical_ , system of precise and exact retribution."

Eyes firmly fastened on the corner of the desk, Spock nodded. "Correct, Captain."

"So it would satisfy your Vulcan sense of _zaprah-yut_ if I were to - just to make things equal, mind - have McCoy drug me with something to throw my brain chemistry completely out of its normal readings. Spike my blood pressure deliriously high and produce a fever that would kill me in a matter of hours. Destroy every shred of mental discipline I possess. Have my betrothed dump me in front of my extended family and - let's see, who's the Terran equivalent, the Federation President? No matter, you get the idea. Beg for my best man's life despite the fact that I shouldn't be able to even _see_ straight at the time, and then beat him in perfectly fair combat to which he _willingly agreed without being smart enough to check the terms and conditions._ You're saying that's what it would take for you to feel that you've seen justice done?"

Spock looked up at that, eyes sparking for the first time with something akin to frustration. "You are making light of a most serious offense, sir," he said through a clenched jaw.

"Oh, stop the _sir_ , will you. And I'm not making light of your culture and its traditions, Spock, you know me better than that," Kirk said gently, cautiously laying a hand on the stiff knee before him. "I'm trying to show you how ludicrously out of line your thought processes are."

The Vulcan's posture stiffened even more, if that was possible. "My thought processes are no longer impaired by the _plak-tow_ , Captain," he replied coldly. "I assure you they are quite logical."

"I'm not debating that. Do _not_ twist my words, Commander. I didn't say your thought processes were incorrect, nor that they were illogical," the captain replied, fondness softening his tone.

Spock's severe expression turned into bewilderment. "Sir?"

"I said they were out of line, Spock – and they are. Because you tend to forget, sometimes, that you're the only Vulcan aboard this ship. I'm not a Vulcan, Spock; you can't expect me to act like one any more than I have the right to expect your responses to be purely human."

"I do not understand," was the soft, lost reply.

"Perhaps Vulcan culture has, as a general rule, less occasion to employ the clause," Kirk mused, his brow unwrinkling as the headache remedy began to kick in. McCoy watched, carefully out of the line of fire, to make sure he didn't start talking nonsense due to the rush of pain relief. "But in human culture, Mr. Spock, you see there's this little clause used between friends known as _forgiveness_. And I choose that form of justice, rather than yours, because I am human. Does your culture not respect my right to choose my own method of enacting justice?"

"It does. But -"

"No buts, Spock. This means that if I've chosen to forgive and forget the offense, then you as my friend simply do not possess the _right_ to continue to bring it up. To do so, is to thereby demean my choice and _my_ culture's sense of justice. Does that make sense?"

"For a human," Spock clarified, obviously grudgingly.

"Well, half-and-half is better than not at all," the captain said with a quirk of a grin, standing to his feet.

"Still, I –"

"Spock," Kirk finally said, pausing behind his dismal First's chair. A gentle hand on his subordinate's shoulder made Spock look up at him with hesitation. "You've never held me responsible for the things I did while under the influence of someone else's control – like the transporter accident last year, or that encounter with that mind-control device on Gamma Tortuga just a few months ago. Why do you expect any different treatment from me?"

Spock's gaze had returned to the desk, uneasy. "Sir, I…the situation is considerably different."

"Explain. Give me your reasoning, Science Officer."

McCoy silently toasted the ploy, because Spock responded better to a scientific process than being asked to 'talk it out' like a human.

"My actions were my own."

"Your actions were dictated by biological impulses completely beyond your control – and I know you were trying to control, I could see it even up to the end," Kirk replied, firmly but not unkindly. "This reasoning is flawed. Continue."

"I waited an undue amount of time before informing you of the danger I posed."

"That is true, but it is an unsatisfactory explanation for your personal guilt. Yes, you should have at least confided in McCoy the possibilities of eventual danger posed to the crew and the ship. However, that confidence would not have negated your eventual actions," Kirk pointed out. "We would not have been able to divert to Vulcan any easier a week before than we did at the time in question; Komack had it out for us either way. The only thing which would have been mitigated would be your own discomfort, and in some small manner your reputation, given the few people who saw you flinging a soup bowl into the corridor on Deck Five. The end result, on Vulcan, would have been the same. This reasoning is also flawed."

Not even responding to the gentle humor, Spock's eyes were looking a bit wild at the methodical destruction of his careful logical constructs, McCoy thought with a twinge of uncharacteristic concern that he immediately blamed on the Andorian bourbon.

"I violated Vulcan custom in bringing outworlders to the planet," Spock said desperately.

"Perhaps; I don't know enough about your culture to judge the offense," Kirk agreed candidly. "But even T'Pau agreed that such was your right, so I somehow doubt you were in the wrong there either. You had no _logical_ way of knowing that our presence would have any effect whatsoever on the Challenge. Your reasoning is, once again, flawed, Commander."

McCoy jumped and cursed, spilling perfectly good alcohol down his scrubs when Spock's chair overturned with a loud clatter. The Vulcan stood toe-to-toe with his captain, fists clenched at his sides and thin chest heaving in an obvious effort to maintain what remained of a tattered control. Kirk's calm, unafraid expression was the only thing that kept the doctor in his chair, though he itched to reach for a sedation hypo, well knowing how far away from normal Spock still was, mentally and emotionally.

"I _killed_ you, Captain!"

The words rang clearly in the quiet Sickbay, a death-knell of painful desperation and defiance.

A silence which continued as Kirk reached down slowly and gently captured one clenched fist in his hand, straightening the thin fingers with little resistance. Slowly, the captain brought the cold hand up to rest at his temple, an invitation if McCoy ever saw one. Then he looked straight into Spock's desperate dark eyes and raised an eyebrow of his own.

" _No_ , you _didn't_ , Commander," he said softly. "Your reasoning. Is. Flawed."

Spock's eyes widened minutely, and McCoy found it prudent to turn his attention for a few minutes to the paperwork pile on his desk (obviously they'd forgotten about him, which was both annoying, and encouraging, from a medical standpoint). He highly approved of Kirk's instinctively perfect handling of the situation; obviously, their captain knew his Vulcan a sight better than he knew himself, and there was something different about Jim and Spock, always had been.

He could easily be jealous, but he somehow wasn't – because if recent events were any indication, Spock had no one else in the galaxy; and Jim had enough subtle baggage to need a firm anchor to rely on no matter what happened to him, personally or professionally. Someone who could remain detached from the situation and therefore be the perfect outside influence on it for good and right.

McCoy had comforted the captain through the loss of his brother and, to a lesser extent, Edith Keeler; but it was only after a trip to Vulcan with Spock that he saw signs of the old Captain Kirk begin to filter back through a mask hardened with personal grief. Spock had somehow slipped into place as soon as Gary Mitchell had died, like a missing puzzle piece that had only just been found, and McCoy was still trying to figure out how that had happened. Then, months later, Spock had mutinied, stealing the ship and facing the death penalty for his former captain; and while McCoy had been the one Kirk had had a drink with that night, pouring out his anger and his hurt over the action, it had only made Kirk's relationship with Spock that much stronger – strong enough that it had been Spock who stubbornly testified against a danged computer, of all things, when Kirk had been facing court-martial just months ago himself.

The fact remained that they were good for each other, perfect in fact, and while he figured he should probably be jealous he really, deep down, wasn't. There was a mighty high price to pay for that kind of relationship between folks, and he frankly wasn't sure if he was prepared to pay it, not yet anyway. And definitely not for someone whose idea of a good time on shore leave was reading a technical manual in a tea house, or not even taking shore leave at all.

In the meantime, it was his job to prevent these two lovable idiots from killing each other (literally, in this last case), and never let it be said that Leonard McCoy was less than perfect at his job.

"Walk with me?" Kirk was saying over his head, and he glanced up to see that Spock looked slightly less like he was ready to destroy another computer or just shut down and reboot into Vulcan Zombie Mode.

"You'd better, because he's probably not gonna be makin' much sense in a few minutes, once that painkiller really hits," he drawled, toasting them both with his last glass of the evening. "You want one for the road, Spock?" he added mischievously.

A slanted eyebrow inclined slightly. "Your human depressants will no longer be necessary, Doctor," Spock replied indifferently.

"Mm, good. You don't appreciate them like they deserve, anyhow. Now shoo, both of you. And Jim, you get a good night's sleep before Komack drags you back down there early tomorrow morning."

The captain's dismal expression was reward enough for having to spend two hours tonight force-feeding a therapy session to his two commanding officers, but it was Spock's hanging back behind his captain to voice a simple "Thank you, Doctor McCoy," that made him decide he'd had _way_ too much to drink tonight, if he was hallucinating weirdness like _that_.

* * *

If there was one thing that drove Leonard McCoy up the wall about his brilliant but impulsive captain, it was the young idiot's reckless disregard for his own health when it came to a choice between it or his command image. A tiny part vanity, a dash of ingrained command presence, and mostly sheer stubbornness were sometimes all that kept Kirk's precious command persona in place, to his own personal detriment following a crisis.

Spock had had a Vulcan cow, McCoy remembered with glee, the first time Altarian 'flu had swept through the ranks in their first few months of the mission, brought aboard by a crewman coming back from leave. The captain had faked his way through three straight days of duty shifts before finally falling into a fever so high one night that his morning alarm failed to penetrate his sleep. Their First Officer, upon receiving no response when the captain neglected to show for Bridge duty, had entered Kirk's quarters to find him only half-conscious of his surroundings on the floor of their shared lavatory.

The doctor well remembered the stern dressing-down their resident Vulcan had administered to a wide-eyed young captain over breakfast, the first morning Kirk could stomach something stronger than orange juice. It was probably the first time he found himself actually agreeing with the hobgoblin on something.

Since then, they had had a sort of unspoken agreement to watch their idiot captain carefully, and to tag-team him if necessary for the sake of his health. Jim, always suspicious, had caught on in no time, and it only made him work that much harder at putting up a front of invincibility for his crew and particularly his immediate subordinates.

"Standard command training, Doctor," he had snapped upon one occasion, ignoring McCoy's remonstrances. "Never let your crew see weakness. It's a capital mistake for your command image."

"So is biting a yeoman's head off because you're too danged stubborn to come get a headache pill," he had retorted tartly. "Would you rather be seen by your crew as human, or _in_ human?"

That hadn't gone over very well. Nor, according to the Vulcan's report, had Spock's fifteen-minute lecture in a stopped turbolift later in the day. However, the yeoman had gotten a public apology late that evening, and so he counted it a win for both of them.

Jim Kirk was as stubborn as they come, and it gave him _fits_.

But this – on this occasion, he wouldn't be forgiving Jim for a long, long time. There would be hell to pay over this, and if he figured out which of his gullible nursing staff was responsible they would be booted down to Waste Recycling as fast as he could sign his name to the transfer.

He had nearly dragged Kirk off the Bridge once the alpha shift replacements had begun to trickle in, newly-restored and in at least passable condition after their encounter with the negative-energy amoeba. (2) Protesting his functionality until even the newest ensign would have been skeptical, the captain had resisted the order to vacate the Bridge until the turbolift door closed, whereupon he spun smartly on his heel and fixed his CMO with a glare that could have dissolved neutronium.

"Doctor McCoy, I'll thank you to not draw such attention to me in front of my crew again," he snapped, the furrows between his brows deepening – a sure sign of pain that McCoy had long since picked up on.

"You'd rather I let them see you start showin' withdrawal symptoms in ten minutes, then?" he returned mildly, fishing out his pocket medical scanner and depositing the portable med kit on the floor of the lift.

"No, but I…"

He looked up in alarm as Kirk inhaled sharply, raising a hand to his face and groping blindly for the turbolift control handle for support with the other.

"Jim?"

"I'm fine, Bones. Just tired." The words were murmured in a tone so quiet that he barely heard them over the whine of the scanner and hum of the lift motors.

"Fine, my eye," he muttered, frowning at the display; it didn't make sense, given the factors he knew about Kirk's physiology and insistence on those blasted stimulants. "Your core temperature is way too low and your blood pressure's dropping through the floor. Did you eat like I told you to? There’s no reason you should be – Jim!"

He had been so intent on the abnormal readings that he was barely quick enough to catch Kirk as he quietly collapsed.

"You and your stupid hero complex!" he snarled, swearing under his breath as he cradled the man's limp head in one hand, settling him gently on the floor of the lift. Kirk's breathing was shallow, his face lined with pain and fatigue, and a slight trembling had started in his extremities that was more worrisome than the dangerously low blood pressure. Something wasn’t right.

As if that wasn't enough for him to deal with, because his hand had left the directional handle the lift had overshot Deck Five and the Sickbay Deck. As they reached Deck Eight, the lift pinged cheerfully, indicating it was stopping to accommodate a new passenger. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed that the doors slid open to reveal Spock, looking immaculate as usual despite having just come back from a harrowing shuttle escape, obviously on his way up to report to the Bridge.

The Vulcan took one look at the captain's lightly shaking form and instantly dropped to one knee beside them, ignoring the lift sensor's impatient dinging, telling him he was in the way of the closing door.

"Doctor, what happened?"

"I _told_ him he shouldn't have had that last stimulant!" McCoy snapped, scanner whirring over the captain's head. "But do I know anything about the human body and its limitations? Of course not! I'm just the ship's Chief Medical Officer, my opinions obviously aren't as qualified as our precious _captain's_!"

The lift chirped indignantly once more, and Spock slammed a firm hand on the hold button without even looking up. "We are both aware of his tendency to self-medicate when necessary to see a crisis through, Doctor," he said quietly.

"Wait a second," McCoy murmured suddenly, lines of worry creasing his face.

"Doctor?"

"Oh, Jim, you _idiot_ ," the doctor breathed finally, his face pale in the artificial light as he looked up from his scanner. "Spock, I _never_ gave him this high of a dose. He got hold of more from somewhere and used them to keep himself on his feet. He's crashing, in every sense of the word."

The news was unpleasant, but not surprising; they had caught the man more than once before overindulging in energy supplements when it was necessary to remain on duty to protect his crew and the ship. Most commanders and even junior officers were forced to do so at one point or another in their Starfleet careers, and there were no regulations forbidding it. But this…McCoy swore again, cradling Kirk's head in one hand while he checked his racing, erratic pulse with the other.

"Jim, you're lucky your heart didn't give out," he whispered furiously at last.

Spock had vaulted to his feet with the grace of a cat and now darted into the corridor, returning momentarily with two blankets obviously snatched from the nearest unfortunate crewman's cabin.

"Help me," McCoy murmured unnecessarily, grabbing the closest one and wrapping it snugly around Kirk's trembling figure. Spock lifted the captain's head and shoulders, allowing him to tuck it snugly under his body. "His system is already going into shock. If I find out which of my nurses gave him those extra stimulants I swear to God they'll be booted out at the next Starbase –"

"Most likely, Doctor, the captain procured them for himself," Spock replied quietly, rolling up the other blanket and swiftly shoving it under the unconscious man's feet. "However reckless he might be regarding his own health, he would do nothing to endanger a member of his crew, in any capacity - including professionally. And Sickbay has been extremely overworked since we encountered the entity."

Kirk's head jerked suddenly to one side, brow creasing with pain, and he murmured something unintelligible, shivering despite the added warmth.

"Computer, voice command. Resume. Deck Five," McCoy said loudly, giving the Vulcan a nudge to the side of the knee to get him out of the door sensor. "I don't have room for him in Sickbay, Spock," he added by way of explanation. "Although most of the crew are recovering quickly, shielded as they were in the lower decks and most of them on bed rest, it's still full and he'd have no privacy. The alpha shift Bridge crew took the worst of the negative energy, and their immune systems were the most compromised to begin with from the strain of the last few weeks. I wondered how on earth he was holding up so well for so long, I should have suspected something like this."

"Indeed," Spock murmured, watching with mounting concern as cold sweat broke out on the captain's forehead. "I was aware that the captain had received minimal sleep for at least that period of time. I was not, however, aware of his method for staving off that necessity, Doctor. My negligence is also inexcusable."

"You're no more to blame than I am, Spock," he sighed. "I'm the one who gave him the stimulants in the first place, and I'm the one who's supposed to drag his stubborn backside down to Sickbay when he pulls a stunt like this."

"Even had we been inclined to such drastic measures, neither of us would have been able to do so under an imminent threat to the safety of the ship," Spock agreed. "Self-recrimination is counter-productive, in this case."

The lift pinged softly, and the doors opened on a deserted corridor, all of the alpha shift crew having already been relieved and safely seen to their quarters by Medical personnel.

"Should've called Christine for an anti-grav gurney, I dunno how – oookay then?"

McCoy's rambling halted abruptly as Spock bent at the knees.

The Vulcan scooped his unconscious captain off the floor of the lift as if he weighed nothing (which McCoy, Sacred Keeper of the Diet Cards, knew darn well wasn't so) and strode off down the corridor with businesslike efficiency, leaving the doctor to scramble after him with the medikit and second blanket.

The captain's door opened slowly and with a most alarming groan, and Spock made a mental note to have their Chief Engineer delegate someone to the secondary circuits controlling those systems damaged in the negative energy fallout. He entered the cabin, raising the temperature by ten degrees with a single voice command, and strode quickly to the captain's sleeping alcove.

"Let me get those sheets down first, Mr. Spock," McCoy's voice, tight with tension, spoke behind him, and he paused to allow the action.

The doctor hastily yanked the blankets down to the foot of the bed, and then began rummaging through the captain's clothing bureau with a familiarity that made Spock slightly and unaccountably uncomfortable, though he gave no indication that the violation disturbed him. Jim was shivering violently in his arms now, and to have such qualms about any action which would alleviate the discomfort was illogical. He deposited Kirk's limp form on the bed and aided in removing the man's uniform tunic, whereupon McCoy manhandled the captain into a thick fleece pullover he had found.

He was surprised to hear a quick, shaky inhalation of breath, and the captain suddenly lifted his head, blinking at them. "Bones?" he said faintly.

"I'm here, Jim. Do us a favor and help Spock get your pants off so I can start your detox cocktail, will you?"

That was crossing a boundary Spock could not countenance. "Doctor!"

"Oh, for pity's sake, Spock! You're tellin' me that –"

" _Bones_. Bones?"

"Yeah, Jim."

"Got to get to the Bridge, Bones."

Spock looked over the man's head with mounting concern, and McCoy shook his head, eyes intently fastened on his work as he snapped together a vitamin drip and detox solution. "Disorientation's normal. Don't let him get up. I need thirty seconds."

"Captain, please do not exert yourself," Spock said, brows clenching as Kirk's movements slowed, words trailing off into indistinguishable murmurs.

"Have to," the captain mumbled, pressing the back of one hand to his perspiring forehead. Spock gently removed it, pressing firmly on the human's shoulder to guide him back to the awaiting pillow. Kirk's head slumped finally against the welcoming softness, though he tossed fitfully for a moment, his gaze wild and confused.

"My ship –"

"Is in excellent condition, as is her crew, sir," Spock answered calmly as he folded Kirk's limp hands over his chest, surreptitiously checking an erratic pulse in the process. "We have sustained no lasting damage from our encounter with the amoebic entity."

Hazel eyes flickered over his face in evident confusion, fastening on his face for the first time. "Spock?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Spock? But you're dead…I did it, _I_ sent you out there in that shuttle…"

Spock's heart clenched despite himself at the naked grief in the confused whisper, and through the physical contact picked up on a wave of utter desolation and despair and self-revulsion – obviously, residual emotional stress from the difficult decision the captain had been forced to make regarding whom to send into the unknown.

"You did what was necessary to save your ship, Jim," he said softly, with all the gentleness he could summon from that part of him still carefully shielded against the shock of the _Intrepid_ 's destruction. "And I am completely unharmed, as is the rest of your crew."

But the captain's eyes had already fluttered closed again, his head falling to the side in limp exhaustion, still shaking even in weary unconsciousness.

"Thanks," McCoy said with gruff sincerity, brushing past him with the detox drip and adhesive hooks to attach it to the wall at the head of the bunk.

"Unnecessary," he replied mechanically, pulling up the captain's sleeve. The doctor attached the intravenous drip and gently replaced the arm onto the bed, whereupon they both pulled up the blankets piled at the foot, tucking them securely in around the sick man.

Kirk fidgeted under the restriction, head tossing from side to side in distress. The single frown-furrow between his sandy brows became suddenly more pronounced, as whatever hallucinatory dreams that typically accompanied such withdrawals began to loom. Spock stepped back as McCoy brusquely leaned past him, foregoing the medical scanner in favor of old-fashioned physical contact.

"Jim, for pity's sake go to sleep," the doctor murmured, idly brushing the single straggling lock of hair back from the captain's brow. "Stop worryin' about your dang ship. Shush now."

"Will he be all right, Doctor?"

"He'll be better faster if we can keep him asleep," McCoy replied, sighing wearily into the hand he dragged down his face. "Soon as he wakes up he's gonna start _throwing_ up, most likely. That's a heck of a lot of chemicals I've got to flush from his system, and he's already showing signs of dehydration, which in him always causes nausea and a serious headache. He's not in for a pleasant few days, Spock, but yes – he'll be fine. Eventually."

"And the next time this happens?"

Blue eyes met his with a glare so fierce it penetrated well past his usual defenses.

"There'd better not _be_ a next time, Commander, or I'll recommend we both get ourselves booted back to Ensigns aboard a waste scow headed for the Delta Quadrant. Understood?"

"Understood, Doctor, and agreed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) _Zaprah-yut_ : lit., "the path of getting one's revenge for a wrong done or an injury"  
> (2) See The Immunity Syndrome


End file.
